


A Balanced Scale

by sohydrated



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ASD coded Dettlaff, AU: we threw out the B&W plot completely, Canon Divergence, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Reunions, Slight Insecurity, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trans Male Character, its practically canon, minimal angst, no beta we die like men, ot3: witcher sandwich, slowish burn, these old men are in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23947786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sohydrated/pseuds/sohydrated
Summary: Post TW3, Geralt is back on the path and wandering the continent for his new purpose. He heads to Toussaint seemingly on a whim, and finds a second chance he had desperately wished for; and a new opportunity he didn't know he needed.Or: I will make these men happy if it kills me.
Relationships: Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dettlaff van der Eretein/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 174
Kudos: 292





	1. When in Toussaint

**Author's Note:**

> for reference, I imagine that Regis had a bit longer to regenerate and didn't have the stress of Dettlaff running off, so he looks as he would have in the books. I was also very charmed by this rendition of him: https://eeerlenwald.tumblr.com/post/171778026169/i-really-like-regis-from-the-game-but-i-have-a

Something that always shocked Geralt when he traveled to Toussaint was how unrelentingly _bright_ it was. Passing through Velen and Vizima, there seemed to be perpetual clouds overhead, and the lands were never at risk for a drought. But as Roach crested a hill and they got closer to the border, it seemed that the clouds had dissipated. What few wisps were in the sky were light and streaking, framing the distant mountains, and the sun shone high in the midday sky. 

Toussaint was a delight for all the senses, the warmer climate home to exotic birds that warbled and trilled in the fragrant trees around him. The breeze was soft against him, winding through loose strands of hair like a caress. And the thought of good wine and rich food…He kicked Roach into a quicker trot, eager to be back in the land of fairy-tale wonder. 

\--

Dettlaff was thankful, at least, that his shop was close to the marketplace on the wharf so that he did not have to be around humans for long while he traded. The children were easy to deal with, coming into the shop for toys and the occasional sweet, but adults were different. He beelined for the smith, set on the few items he needed for his repairs when he noticed a stock of white hair between two swords. A witcher? He hung back to watch the man as he exchanged materials with the merchant, haggling expertly on the cost for silver and meteorite. Coming to a consensus, he undid the harness for one of his swords and set it on the table, still in its scabbard. He turned to leave, and Dettlaff caught a glimpse of a long scar that crossed over his brow and down his cheek. 

Realization struck him. He knew this man, or knew of him at least. Geralt of Rivia. Regis' friend and confidant during the time before his injury and regeneration.

Well, friend may not be a strong enough word. Dettlaff knew through years of caring for Regis that he had loved the witcher, adored him to the point of being self-sacrificial in their fight for a member of Geralt's pack. He had also gotten the sense that it was unrequited, as Geralt was bound to a sorceress with violet eyes. Dettlaff felt himself conflicted, without a doubt Regis would want to see Geralt, but he was only now almost completely regenerated after being melted down to near-nothing.

What if Geralt asked Regis to travel with him again, taking him away from Dettlaff and putting him in more danger? The thought alarmed him, he wanted nothing more than to keep his lover safe, but not even the gods themselves could keep Regis from something he set his mind to. And he could not well lie to him, he had never been able to master the art of deception, he just didn't see the point. 

Golden eyes met his from across the crowded market, suspicion apparent in the narrowing of cat-like pupils. He gave a curt nod and turned heel back to his shop. The supplies could wait. In his walk back, Dettlaff resolved he would tell Regis when he got back from work, though he was chilled at what it all might mean.

\--

After trading goods and picking up his silver sword from the smith, Geralt was a bit richer and ready to head to the tourney grounds. He chose to walk Roach through the streets rather than ride her, taking the extra time to enjoy the sights. Even the slums around the bay were more beautiful and upscale than any he saw in the north. Bright colors adorned the crumbling homes and while the faces of the poor were still streaked with dirt, he saw the healthful glow about everyone's cheeks.

Well, almost everyone. Pale blue eyes and a pallid, severe face flashed in his mind as he considered the man he caught staring at him in the market. More friendly than other places he has been, some in Toussaint were still wary of witchers, and he imagined that was the reason for the glare. Though, the intensity of it seemed strangely personal. Perhaps another witcher had done him wrong, he mused. 

Whatever the reason for the strange man's stare, it was quickly forgotten as he reached the tourney grounds. It was absolutely alive with activity, people flowing from tent to tent, laughing and drinking wine. A gaggle of children followed a knight walking to his tent, armor glinting gold in the sun. He pulled up a chair and began to tell them a story of valor, all posture and waving arms as he played up the best bits. He was rather young for a knight, with long blond hair and a clean face, but he clearly had a flair for holding the attention of the kids. They were clamoring for another tale as trumpets blew, and everyone began to move toward the arena. The knight ruffled the hair of a boy sitting nearest to him, and donned his helmet as he walked toward the performers' entrance. 

Seeing the young knight piqued Geralt's interest, and he entered the arena and found a seat. Fights for regular folk were an exciting event, but for witchers it was just another activity, and usually one that involved rolling eyes at the fighter's poor form. Still, he was already here, may as well get immersed in the culture. The trumpet sounded again as the announcer began his opening speech. Sitting behind him was Duchess Anna Henrietta, radiant as ever, with a smile on her face as one of her Ladies-in-Waiting whispered to her. 

"Announcing, Sir Guillaume de Launfal!" Called the host, as the young knight from earlier walked out, proud as a peacock. He bowed deeply before the Duchess. 

"And now, he will face the great monster in battle! Glory and honor to him!" The announcer cried.

_A monster?_ Thought Geralt. The large gate opened and out charged a shaelmaar, of all things. The creature was in a frenzy, turning its head this way and that as it searched for the knight only to be distracted by the bells tied to its bloodied tail. Geralt frowned at the needless cruelty; shaelmaar usually live in caves, tucked away from humans but are large and incredibly ferocious when provoked. Guillaume, to the credit of either his idiocy or his bravery, charged at the beast as it turned toward the jangling bells. He swiped at a plated arm, trying to get his blade between the cracks in the natural armor. The shaelmaar gave a piercing shriek and turned, using its momentum to swipe at him with a clawed paw. The knight could not get out of the way in time and was sent flying into the guard wall of the arena, crumpling into a heap. The shaelmaar reared up, preparing to curl into a ball and roll towards Guillaume at high speed. 

This was getting dangerous. Geralt looked at all of the people sitting in the stands above where Guillaume lie dazed, and could easily see the beast charging, collapsing that wall of the arena, crushing all of those people. He darted down the stairs and hopped the rail into the fighting grounds, casting aard just as the shaelmaar stood on two legs. The monster screamed and fell onto its back, leaving its soft underbelly vulnerable. Not wasting any time, Geralt drew his sword and began slashing and piercing the unprotected flesh, not necessarily striking fatal blows. Perhaps it was foolish to take pity on a creature as strong as this one, but it was clear that the shaelmaar was suffering. It had wounds that looked fresh and were not from him, evidence that it had been used in multiple events such as these. 

Because of its injuries, it did not take long for him to best the monster. It lay panting, snuffling on the ground with little more than a few small whines. He took in the sight, judging that if it lived, the beast would not be much of a threat to anyone for quite some time. The sound of trumpets and the announcer took him from his thoughts.

"The beast has been bested! Will the witcher slay it, or spare the pitiful wretch?" 

Geralt sheathed his silver, and turned to face the podium the duchess and crier occupied. 

"I will spare the shaelmaar! I request it to be released!" He bowed, appealing to Anna Henrietta's sense of kindness. She gave him a small nod.

"Long live the merciful witcher!" The announcer called with a flourish of trumpets following. The shaelmaar, now contained, was dragged off and Anna Henrietta entered with her Ladies-in-Waiting. Geralt was helping up Guillaume, who was muttering to himself.

"Vivienne, oh Vivienne. She cannot see me like this." He winced as he tried to breathe, his injured ribs clearly paining him.

"Just smile, don't try to talk." Geralt whispered to him as the women approached. While he may be a romantic at heart, the Toussaintios took the notion to a dizzying extreme.

"Geralt of Rivia! I did not imagine that you would grace our tourney, let alone save the day!" The Duchess greeted, speaking more to her audience than him directly. 

"Duchess, it is good to see you again. You appear to be in good health." He said with a nod of his head, unable to bow while supporting the wounded knight. 

"Guards, if you would be so kind as to help Guillaume to the medical tent. Geralt and I have catching up to do."

The guards took the knight, who was doing his best to smile at a blonde Lady-in-Waiting with a stand-offish expression. If that was Guillaume's love, he might just be out of luck. With his body now free, Geralt bowed to the duchess and even kissed her ring when she held out her hand, never breaking gaze from her beautiful crystalline eyes. He did not fail to notice the slight blush that tinted her rouged cheeks darker, or the hitch in her breath. _When in Toussaint_ , he thought to himself. 

"Tell me, witcher," she began, composed again. "what brings you to our duchy? Is, is Julian with you?" The hopefulness in her voice was telling, he thought, of what she wanted out of this conversation. 

"No, Dandelion is not with me, your Grace. He knows that he is not welcome in Toussaint, under your orders." She pursed her lips at that, and he wondered if she remembered how close she came to ordering his death. 

"As for me, now that my daughter is in Nilfgaard I have been traveling around taking contracts. Simple witcher's work." He shrugged, keeping it light. No need to go into the internal crisis he was having about being directionless for the first time in decades. 

"How fortunate for us that the Path carried you this way, then. I had heard that Cirilla was with her father again. Tell me, do you think she is prepared for court life?" Anna Henrietta tilted her head as much as her crown and carefully arranged hair would allow. No doubt gathering information on Ciri, if will be a firm ruler when the time comes. 

"A better question would be if the courts are prepared for her. She is more stubborn than her father and has seen more of the world. I think she will manage well and everyone else needs to just hang on for the ride." He felt pride tickle him in thinking of his daughter putting stuffy dignitaries in their place. 

The duchess smiled wide, perhaps imagining the same. "I am glad to hear it. I know how hard you worked to ensure her safety. I must go attend to some tourney planning, but it has been wonderful to speak with you. If you are interested, give me a week and I shall have compiled a list of contacts that my knights have been unable to fulfill and send them to you." Her tone was firm, more of an order than an ask. 

"I would be honored, your grace. It will hardly be work when the setting is as lovely as this." Which was not a lie, and it isn't as if he had anywhere to _be_ , so he may as well collect good coin while he sipped wine. 

"Excellent! I will have my people begin working on this at once. Farewell, Geralt of Rivia. It was wonderful to see you again, especially with so grand an entrance!" 

"Likewise, your Grace." He said with another short bow as she turned to leave. 

"Oh, Witcher!" She called over her shoulder. "Be so kind as to check on Guillaume as you go, our surgeon is well trained but monster injuries are another matter." She left without waiting for a response, already arm and arm with one of her ladies. 

Geralt sighed, knowing that shaelmaar did not have any kind of poison or magic that would require his specialty. Not that he could have told her anyway. He exited the arena and looked for the medical tent, easily identifiable from the large red crosses that adored it. 

Pulling back the flap and entering, he found the blond knight was already passed out on a cot, with his chest armor removed and some sort of poultice spread over his bruising ribs. The tent itself was thick with the smell of herbs, he could easily identify the scent of calendine, willow bark, anise, but there was something under that. A note of...cinnamon? Strange, cinnamon didn't have any medical properties that he knew of, the only medic he had known to use it was-

"Hello, Geralt." A calming voice with little timber chimed behind him as the tent opened. His head whipped around and his eyes were met with a steady, black gaze. Familiar and chilling. 

"Regis?"


	2. Reunion

All it had taken was one passing breeze, and Regis had entirely forgotten the wraps he was supposed to be gathering for the young fool in his care. A smell committed to memory--a heady, earthy musk, the tang of steel and silver, all covered in the sharpness of the air after first frost. It couldn't be anyone else, it was _him._ Remembering he had to uphold his pretense of humanity, he followed the scent by foot, zipping through the crowd until he was back at his own tent. He could hear him then, the slower beat of a witcher's heart unmistakable. A thousand times during his recovery he had imagined how this would go, what witty thing he might say. Instead, as he peeled back the canvas flap to his tent and saw his closest friend, his tongue became frozen.

"Hello, Geralt." He uttered, sounding rather like a complete idiot. 

He turned, face completely slack. Gone was the leather headband he always wore, and his hair was tied back behind his head. It appears he had taken to wearing a beard, which suited him quite well. His eyes were dilated wide as he realized who he was looking at.

"Regis?"

\--

There he was, much like Geralt had remembered him. His hair the same dark gray with silver streaks, long and pulled back. His clothes the same understated, scuffed style he was known for. His face, if anything, seemed more youthful, less pale than it had been years ago. In an instant, he wrapped the vampire in his arms, squeezing him tighter than he would ever dare hold someone human. 

"Regis! Regis it's you! Oh gods, how? Regis."

He was babbling, burying his face in his friend's neck and holding the back of his head in one hand. He wasn't sure that if he let go Regis would still be there and he didn't want to risk losing him. A small, nagging part of his brain thought that this could be a trick, that the Regis standing before him could be a doppler, but he doubted it. When Geralt pressed their foreheads together and stared at him through teary eyes, Regis wiggled one arm out of the embrace and wiped a tear off his cheek, meeting his eyes with infinite fondness. Then, Geralt was sure.

"It's me, dear friend. My, how I've missed you." Regis' voice hitched, subtly, as he said it. 

"How? How did you survive? I watched…" Geralt's throat constricted at the memory, the death of his hansa, Regis, burning and _screaming_. He had lost many nights of sleep to the memories. 

Regis huffed a laugh. "By the skin of my teeth, as they say. My kind are not so easily killed."

"But we checked. There was nothing left…" Geralt wondered if perhaps the shaelmaar had knocked him in the head, and he was hallucinating all of this. It wouldn't be the first time he had seen the mirage of dead friends while impaired. He squeezed Regis harder, just to make sure.

"Oh!" Regis felt like he was in a vice. "This story is going to take some time. If you release me, I will finish up with the young knight here and we can talk." 

\--

Geralt stared at Regis doubtfully, as if he may run or vanish instead, but gradually let go of him. He straightened his rumpled clothing and grinned, hard enough to hurt his cheeks. His Hippocratic oath was all that was keeping him from dragging Geralt to the nearest private alcove and telling him everything. As it was, all he had to do was bandage the young man and-

"Oh! Silly me, I forgot to grab the bandages." He tsk'd.

Geralt, whose eyes hadn't left him, seemed to snap back to the present moment. He rooted around in the satchel attached to his right thigh. 

"Here, I have some." He handed them to Regis, and he felt the warmth of the man's fingers linger over his for a moment.

"Oh, thank you! I shall make sure to replenish your supply, of course." He set to work wapping Guillaume's bruised ribs, to keep his numbing salve on and to limit his movement so they could set well. It really is a shame that there isn't more one can do when a rib cracks, but addressing the pain of the patient does wonders for their recovery time. Once Regis had finished, he stood and brushed off his pant legs, though they were not particularly dusty. 

"Let me fetch Anje, she is the other medic here. You have impeccable timing, as always; my shift was just about to end as you arrived." He schooled his expression so he would not alert the entire duchy that he had fangs, before stepping out into the noise and brightness of the grounds. 

\--

The story of Regis' regeneration was, in fact, a long one.

Sat under a lovely specimen of honeylocust, he told Geralt his tale of what it was like to be brought back into being. He spoke of Dettlaff, whose infinite compassion and patience made it all possible. Spoke of learning to walk again after years of being bedridden while he formed, of having to adjust to speaking again without his throat going bloody and raw.

If Regis didn't mention the searing pain that comes with nerves generating before skin, or of the flashbacks that still prevent him from putting his feet up next to the fire, well, he would say it was to spare Geralt of the unnecessary details. To his credit, Geralt saved his questions until the end of it. By this time, the grounds had quieted and the first twinkling of stars winked overhead. Regis sat with his back against the tree's smooth bark and tilted his head up to observe the constellations. The witcher was doing the same, resting against him from shoulder to hip to foot.

"Regis, I can't even begin to imagine all that you have gone through these past few years. It makes much of what I worried about to be trivial." There was awe in his voice, but pain too. Geralt always was soft-hearted. It was one of Regis' favorite things about the man, in fact. 

"Nonsense. The entire world heard about Cirilla's defeat of both the Wild Hunt and the White Frost. With a certain rugged witcher at her side. Besides, I've never known you to have time for triviality." 

"That was mostly her, to be fair. I was there for emotional support." He smirked and Regis couldn't help but shake his head at his friend's humility. 

"I wish I had known you were alive. I would have loved to bring Ciri to see you. Now she doesn't have time to travel with me." A frown wrinkled his brow, and he seemed pensive. Regis held Geralt's hand, thumb stroking over his palm. 

"You know that Cirilla would drop everything for you if you needed it. I may not be partial to all the goings-on in your life for the past decade, but I do know that your dedication to each other is unmatched." His brow smoothed a little at that.

"You're right. I still haven't gotten used to the whole idea of her being an Empress. I always imagined us on the Path together."

"Ah yes. I have no doubt she would be an excellent witcher. Though, isn't it the nature of things, that a child will go against their parents' expectations?" He chuckled to himself. "At any rate, if she has even a fraction of your empathy, intelligence, and sense of justice, she will be a marvelous ruler." Geralt turned to him and closed his hand around Regis' thumb. His eyes were gentle, fond.

"Why didn't you tell me you were alive?" The question hit Regis in the chest. There it was, something he had been struggling to address within himself. In truth, the second he could stand up for more than a few moments, he insisted on trying to find Geralt, but Dettlaff had been firm about staying in one place for his recovery. It wasn't even until Regis kept trying to sneak out of their warren to go to the neighboring village that Dettlaff had agreed to move to civilization. 

Moreover, he had been nervous about what seeing Geralt might mean. He had died thinking he failed--failed to protect Ciri, failed to protect Geralt, the whole hansa. It was only a year after beginning regeneration that he was able to communicate with Dettlaff enough to learn that Cirilla, Geralt, and Yennefer had survived the encounter with Vilgefortz and Emhyr. The rest of their gang had fallen. Guilt and relief warred within him, war within him still. And then there were mixed reports about if Geralt was truly alive or not, harrowing him constantly until his ravens reported he had been brought to Kaer Mohren. From there it sounds as though his life had been a whirlwind of non-stop activity, and Regis felt, well, unnecessary. 

At this point, he realized that Geralt was staring expectantly at him and he had not yet spoken. 

"My dear, it wasn't for lack of wanting. You are a difficult man to track down and it took me years to even begin to look like myself again. This is the first year I've been able to leave home without Dettlaff over my shoulder, insisting I sit down every ten minutes." He tried to keep the response jovial, hopefully enough to sate Geralt's inquisitive nature for now. 

"This Dettlaff sounds like quite a character. I still don't understand the...regenerating so much, but to give years of work and blood to someone is incredible." Geralt's hand and relaxed, allowing Regis to continue to rub circles into his palm. He smiled.

"He is, to say the least. He is compassionate without limits, we had only known each other in passing before he found my remains, and yet he nurtured them with nothing to gain. He is rather solitary, but he willingly gave it up to live here where I could practice my work. He reminds me so much of you, in fact." 

"Really now?" Geralt raised an eyebrow.

"Quite. Both of you are giving to the point of being a detriment to yourselves simply because it is your nature. Both of you feel so strongly but try to hide it, badly I might add. And both of you are prone to intense brooding at all hours." Geralt pursed his lips, and he responded with a grin. 

"Hey, I'll have you know that I have moved on from brooding to quiet contemplation." Geralt mocked indignance.

"Yes, and I have moved from being an old bat to a bat of advanced age. Quite the transformation if I do say so myself." That earned Regis a laugh.

"Alright, alright. So when am I meeting this Dettlaff guy? I'll be here for at least a few weeks doing some work for the duchess." 

Regis looked down, considering. Dettlaff would need time to get used to the idea of meeting the man he had heard about many times over the years. Without knowing it, Geralt was a part of Regis' pack, and by extension his, but the idea had been abstract until now. 

"Hm, how do I say this? Dettlaff is different, even by vampire standards. He reminds me sometimes of a changeling, are you familiar with the myth?"

Geralt nodded. "I've even been hired to 'find' the missing children. There's never any magic at play, just kids who develop differently. Less eye contact and sometimes overwhelmed by their senses, but still the same kid." He finished with a shrug.

"Correct. Dettlaff is brilliant, with a truly unique artistic vision, but many conventions elude him. He doesn't understand formalities or lying. He is very comfortable on his own focusing on what makes him content, and is slow to trust. Once it is established though, he loves so deeply and fiercely that nothing could remove him from your side. Again, much like you in that regard." He patted Geralt's knee and stood slowly, offering a hand to help him up. Geralt accepted.

"So he needs time to get used to me being around." Geralt surmised. He licked his lips nervously, "He sounds very important to you, Regis. I hope he comes around." 

"Oh nonsense, of course he will. He has heard very much about you. Now, are you free tomorrow evening? I would like to hear about what has been going on in _your_ life, as well." Geralt brightened.

"Yeah, as far as I know. I'm probably going to stay at the Pheasantry until I can get those contracts from the Duchess. Come by for dinner?"

"I wouldn't miss it, dear witcher." He said with a fond smile, eyes crinkling around the edges.

\--

After a few more embraces, they said goodnight and parted ways. Geralt stabled Roach on the tourney grounds and took his pack with him to the Pheasantry. He couldn't stop smiling to himself, after years it felt like the hole in his heart left by Regis' death was mending. Grief, he had learned from many, many losses, did not get easier. Years might change it, smooth some edges, but it became a weight that you carried until you didn't remember a time it wasn't there. And now not only was the weight gone, in its place was the elation of having his friend back. 

That night, laying under the deliciously cool sheets the inn used, Geralt traced his finger over the spot Regis had been kneading in his palm. He felt something springing in his chest, warm and tender and familiar. His feelings for Regis had never been cut and dry. Geralt had grown fond of him during their days in the hansa, perhaps alarmingly quick considering what Regis was. But he felt safe with him, in a way he didn't with very many people in his life. His fondness teetered between platonic and an ambiguous _something more,_ which Geralt realized later was romantic love. Now more than ever he was sure, because all of that unresolved affection was rearing back full force. Not, he decided, that he would act on anything. Geralt was just happy to have his closest friend back, it was more than he could ever have hoped for. 

That night, Geralt drifted to sleep with more ease than he had in a long time.

\--

Dettlaff had been just getting ready to set out and find Regis when he finally came home. He had felt his partner coming, their bond was closed most of the time--he became too overwhelmed to have it open frequently, but Regis had opened it enough to send _joy_ and _excitement_ through it. He had misted there, which was unusual for him in general and a bit risky in his current state, so Dettlaff knew he must have big news. Before he could even wonder if Regis had run into the witcher, Regis materialized in front of him and threw his arms around Dettlaff.

"My love! I have had the most amazing day, you wouldn't even believe what has happened!" Regis was grinning ear to ear, the lovely points of his fangs catching the light of the candles just so and his eyes sparkled with unrestrained glee. Ah, it had been as Dettlaff had thought.

"I see you found the witcher then. Good, I was waiting for you so I could tell you he was here." Nervously, with quite a bit of hand-wringing, but his beloved didn't need to know that. 

Regis looked shocked. "You _s_ _aw_ him?! When? Why didn't you come get me?" 

Dettlaff rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. He hadn't meant to disappoint. He stared at his feet trying to think of what to say. Instead he released his clamp on the bond enough for _worry, safe/unsafe_ to pass through. Regis' features softened, and he pulled the taller man down to rest his face in his neck, nuzzling him. His shoulders slumped, calmed by the touch. 

"I'm not upset, my love. I am just surprised you saw him is all. Our paths crossed anyway, so all is well. May I tell you what happened? He is very eager to meet you, you know." Regis was carding his nails through Dettlaff's thick, dark hair. He had washed the pomade out of it, letting his curls fall erratically around his head. Regis had commented many times that his ungroomed hair made him look like he still belonged to the wilds, but would always kiss him as he said it. He supposed that meant his lover didn't disapprove wholly of them, and leaned into the touch.

"Please, tell me. I can only imagine your joy. Though, I don't know about meeting him yet. I know you trust him, I…" Dettlaff was worried, but not sure how to say it. Meeting someone Regis cared for deeply made him nervous. He was not jealous by nature, but he did not make a good first impression on the witcher. What if he didn't trust him, and told Regis as much? And what if he tried to make Regis pick one of them? It was all very silly and overwhelming to worry about, but such worries come often for him. He felt so deeply, he had never loved another like he did Regis, and any threat to that sent him reeling. 

Regis guided them toward the bed while he was lost in thought, and smoothed his brow with a kiss. 

"Dear, I will not make you do anything you aren't ready for. I merely wanted to tell you he wants to meet you as a way to convey he already seems fond of you. I talked you up quite a bit." He flashed an easy smile and _oh_ , Dettlaff felt ridiculous for worrying. Regis had a way, even without the bond, of explaining things right. He seemed to know what concerned him even before he did. He flopped on his back, with his head in the other's lap. 

"Thank you, my heart. Now, tell me everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vampires love pet names. Let me know what you think! My hope is to be able to post a new chapter or two next week, if I am able.


	3. Libations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is longer than I had wanted it to be, but I just adore dettlaff and regis so much i had to give them a cute moment.

Morning rituals were always something Regis loved. Rituals of any kind were bound to settle the nerves and keep things in working order, but morning rituals especially set the tone for the day to be as positive as possible. 

Not that today wouldn't be positive. He could be run over by a carriage and forget about it instantly once he remembered he had dinner with Geralt to look forward to. But that did not mean he wouldn't squeeze every last ounce of joy out of his usual routine. Dettlaff was sitting between his knees as he slicked his wild curls back with pomade. He loved the way each lock had a mind of its own, twisting in whatever direction seemed to suit it at the moment. When he had regained sentience, it was these same curls he first saw, though they were much more unkempt and snarled. Grooming Dettlaff was one of the first ways he felt able to give back to his savior, though he had firmly denied wanting anything in return. Now it was how they began the day, just a few more touches and moments of quiet before entering the bustling human city.

"-pack?" He tuned back in to realize Detlaff was asking him something. 

"I'm sorry, you'll have to repeat that. I was thinking about how much I adore your hair." He smoothed his hand over the now-tamed curls to emphasize. Dettlaff huffed a laugh.

"I asked if Geralt knew he was a part of your pack." 

"He does not. Though I am unsure of how to tell him. We had something as close as humans get to a pack themselves, but it isn't quite the same." 

"Would it upset him to know?" Dettlaff tipped his head back to look up at Regis, brow slightly furrowed. 

"Oh, I don't believe so. He more than anyone understands the power of non-blood ties. I just think it will be silly to bring up." He moved his seat so he could stand, his partner's curls as controlled as they were able to get. He set about dressing for the day.

"Oh." Said Dettlaff from the floor, a bit confused by the explanation. "Will you tell him you are in love with him tonight?" 

Regis, who was in the middle of putting on his trousers, sputtered and almost stumbled at the question. 

"Dettlaff, I don't--I-"

"I know you love him the same way I knew you loved me before you told me. I am not jealous, you do not need to hide it." He had turned to rest his forearms on the seat Regis had been occupying, his pale blue eyes reflecting the truth of his statement. 

"It isn't that simple, dear heart. He and Yennefer have dealt with quite a lot to be together an-"

"I did not think witchers picked only one mate." Dettlaff tilted his head in consideration. 

Regis gave up fiddling with the buttons of his doublet and sat next to Dettlaff on the floor. Dettlaff turned to him and finished the buttoning where he left off. 

"Most, I think, don't have partners at all. Regardless, they have a bond that has trumped all others, and I do not wish to stand between that. And" he paused, weighing what he was about to say "he does not know me as the person I am now. I was rather cowardly with my feelings then. And I feel that old cowardice coming back to me. I just got my friend back, I don't wish to push my luck further." 

He took one of Dettlaff's hands and kissed each knuckle, thinking. 

"I know you said you weren't jealous, I hope you know that I am not leaving your side to adventure with him. I've had enough of that life for the time being." He didn't miss the way his lover's eyes went wide. He knew this was something that would harry him. 

"It...is comforting that you told me this. I do not think I could stand to see you hurt like that again." A shudder shook him as he said it. 

"Frankly, I don't think I could survive an ordeal like that again. Even with my most dashing rescuer caring for me." He placed a kiss on Dettlaff's palm. "No, I am more than content to stay by your side." He leaned against the other man, who let out a little trill of joy and held him. 

Dettlaff had been right of course (he was more often than he realized). He had been interested in Geralt from almost the moment he saw him, but it wasn't until the witcher refused to fight him after learning of his true nature that he realized he loved him. Vampires, traditionally, rarely indulged in romantic love. Though they were by no means monogamous, balancing multiple relationships over centuries was a delicate task for deeply feeling creatures. He knew that he would be utterly dedicated to Geralt for the rest of his days, just as he was with Dettlaff, regardless of whether he expressed his feelings or not. 

Eventually, he had to untangle himself from his lover, who pouted as he grabbed his medical bag and headed toward the door. Before he could leave, Dettlaff had misted over, appearing right in front of him. He kissed him, pointed nails tracing his jawline as pointed teeth playfully nipped at his lower lip.  _ Well, I suppose I could delay a moment longer _ , he thought, and opened his mouth for him. Dettlaff kissed him as if he was meticulously committing every detail to memory, tongue twining with his before giving broad sweeps along his palette. He hummed low in his throat as he felt it gently follow the points of his fangs, always an area of fascination for the younger vampire. Regis pressed their bodies closer, hands tracing along the small of his back. Dettlaff trailed down his neck, leaving what would no doubt have been marking love bites on anyone else. 

"Mmm, my love, my patients are waiting. I'll be late at this rate." He chided, though there was no force behind it. It  _ would  _ be nice to stay in his lover's arms today. With one last kiss, Dettlaff stepped away, a smirk playing on his reddened lips.

"Of course, doctor. Wouldn't want to keep them waiting." He opened the door with a sweeping bow, but broke decorum to glance up and wink. 

"You are incorrigible. If I didn't know any better I would say you would keep me in bed for the rest of my days." He huffed and stepped out the door. 

"Oh, one may only dream, I suppose. Enjoy your evening with the witcher, my dear." Dettlaff grinned at him and closed the door, leaving him to wonder not for the first time what he had done to deserve a mate like him. 

\--

Now, Geralt would not consider himself to be an expert, but he did think he at least met the qualification of "very big fan" when it came to wine. He enjoyed the subtle differences in vintages from one year to the next, or guessing how it was aged. He had even won money taking bets to identify a vintage on smell alone. He adored wine.

What he did not realize was that in Toussaint, the best way to age wine was to select--seemingly at random--a cave and shove as many barrels as possible into it. The issue with this practice is that things live in caves, and those things aren't happy to be told to leave. The vintners are lucky that there is a witcher in town who has only a small premium for clearing out the monsters that live inside. He had cleared three for one vintner in a day, and was paid per beast rather than a lump sum. Even without the duchess arranging contracts, Geralt suspected he could live pretty comfortably here. 

By the time evening was darkening the pink skies over Beauclair, he was heading to the inn with a full coin purse and a few bottles of wine for his troubles. His employer felt rather guilty when the second gargoyle of the day sent him flying into a stalactite off its vicious backswing and offered them as a bonus. 

He greeted the barmaid on his way upstairs, making sure to wipe his feet before entering so she wouldn't accuse him of being ill-mannered again. He had just enough time to have a quick wash before Regis got there. He rummaged through his pack and found what he was looking for--a deep red tunic that had been a gift from Eskel a few years back. Though he hated dressing up, he found this to be acceptable to his style. Eskel has the most refined taste out of any of the wolves and would occasionally bring back gifts when they would winter together. 

He threw on the tunic after washing, with dark trousers and boots. He noticed now that the neckline was rather open which might, given his impending evening with a vampire, make others nervous. But they didn't get the luck of knowing Regis. He would sooner expect a random passerby to take a bite out of him than Regis. Actually, the thought of Regis' mouth that close to him sent a little thrill down his spine, so he stuffed that idea away and went back downstairs to order dinner up to the room for them both. The barmaid quirked an eyebrow and her eyes roved up and down his form, but said nothing. He wondered briefly if he should change. 

As if summoned, Regis stepped through the door. He was dressed in his usual work attire, with his messenger bag of supplies crossed over his body. He was holding the strap of it, a behavior that Geralt could never tell if it was genuine or adopted to make him look less intimidating. His dark eyes sparkled as he caught sight of Geralt, and for a split second he thought he noticed a similar, more appreciative roving glance than the barmaid had used. It was over by the time he noticed, and Regis was pulling him into a short hug. 

"Hey! Glad you could make it. I just ordered our food upstairs." He was grinning more than perhaps meeting a friend would warrant, but he could hardly believe it was  _ Regis _ in front of him, after all of this time. 

"Excellent, I'm famished. Shall we head upstairs?" 

Geralt nodded and grabbed two glasses from the barmaid. 

The room he had rented was bigger than he was used to, with a small terrace with seating for two. He uncorked the wine and poured some into their glasses to let breathe. 

"Guillaume sends his regards. He is thankful you didn't allow him to be crushed in front of the object of his affections." Regis said conversationally, putting down his bag and lounging sideways in his chair. 

Geralt smirked. "Ah, so I imagine you've heard about Vivienne."

"Gods, more than I'd ever care to. Did you know he's trying to write poetry about her? Now, I'm sure he does not have a concussion, but after listening to him try to compose a line about her breasts that did not include the word 'milky' I was sure he had been knocked on the head." He was rubbing his temples. Knights in fantasy were all very charming and chivalrous of course. But in real life, they were often bland and lacking intellectual refinement. 

Geralt let out a deep belly laugh. "Thank the gods I have Dandelion to write poetry for me. I'm sure otherwise I'd be much like him." He took a sip of his wine and hummed in pleasure. Excellent vintage, aged in well-treated oak barrels with hints of...clove perhaps? It gave it a very earthy bouquet, and would go well with their meal tonight. 

He perked up suddenly. "I forgot, I have something to show you!" He went over to his nightstand, where he kept his field ledger, and pulled out a piece of paper. He handed it to his friend, their fingers brushing for the briefest moment. 

Regis unfolded it. "That's Ciri. What she looks like now." His face was imperceptible for a moment as he took in the sketch Emhyr's spy had done when she was still on the run. It really was a good sketch, he kept it with him and looked at it when he began to feel far away from his family. 

When Regis looked at him again, his dark eyes shone with wetness. "Oh, Geralt, she's beautiful. She's grown marvelously. She even looks like you, you make that same face." His fingers were tracing over the lines of her cheek, as if he was stroking it. Geralt felt emotion well up in him as well. 

"I never, because of what happened I never got to thank you. If you hadn't taken out so many of the guard, and weakened Vilgefortz, I would have never gotten her back. I can never repay your sacrifice." His voice wavered, even mentioning Stygga brought back many harsh visions, but he needed to tell Regis. 

Cool hands enveloped his, he looked to Regis who had almost a steely look, eyes still wet with unspent tears. 

"You are not indebted to me. Know that I would do it again, with no hesitation. Every moment of it was worth it for you to have your family again." His voice was serious, low, and all Geralt could do was stand there slack-jawed. 

"You are my family too. You all were." He felt himself saying. It was true, their gang had been the only time other than with the wolves that he felt that strong kinship. Whatever had made Regis' eyes appear hard had softened again. 

He had opened his mouth, about to say something, when there was a hard knock on the door. They both sprang apart, the moment broken but the heavy feelings still hanging in a miasma around them. Geralt strode to the door and took the heavy tray of food from the young maid. 

\--

They talked through dinner as if the heavy moment from before hadn't happened. Regis was nothing if not a master of conversation, and he spurred Geralt to tell him the major events of their time apart. There were many, so he mostly stuck to what happened with Ciri. It was past midnight when he finally got to the story of Ciri's return feast, how she spent much of the night seeing how many times she could "accidentally" step on Morvran's toes before he cracked. 

Regis snickered into his hand. "That does sound like our Cirilla. Even after saving the world, she's still a little spitfire." He drained the last of his glass.

"And how. Yen tells me she's getting along better with him now, they ride together apparently." His words were soft around the edges, he was a little drunk after the several bottles of wine they shared.

He saw Regis pause. "And how is your Yen? I know you are not one for politics, but it must be hard for you two to be apart all the same."

Geralt pursed his lips. Every acquaintance, and even some brash strangers, asked about their relationship. Some days it was easier than others to say they had parted ways, not mentioning the djinn for the sake of their privacy. Other days, he wanted to storm off to avoid talking about it. It still twisted the knife in his gut, to have what he thought was his truest and deepest connection be only a mirage. He still cared deeply for Yen, she was brilliant and driven beyond measure, and the mother to his child. She had sacrificed much to see them all succeed, to even be alive long enough to have the chance to part from each other. It didn't make the hollowness he had felt after they broke his wish any less raw. 

"We aren't together anymore. We...lifted the wish that bound us together. I found out that that was all it was, for me. Magic." His eyes were downcast, lost in thought. 

"My dear, I am sorry. I know how much you both fought to be together. I'm sorry to bring it up at all." Regis seemed to be struggling between curling in on himself and comforting his friend. The latter won out and he reached over, pulling Geralt out of his chair and into him as if he weighed nothing. The witcher wrapped his arms around him easily. 

"S'okay" he slurred from the crook of Regis' neck. "You d'dn't know. I'm okay." He breathed deeply, the herbal scent comforting him. He smelled something under that, clean, almost like a mountain stream. That must be what he tried to disguise, the natural smell of a vampire. He chased it unthinkingly, his nose skimming along a tendon and behind the smaller man's ear. It was richer there, and his tongue darted out to taste. He licked a stripe along the sensitive skin, relishing the lightly sweet and refreshing taste. Regis' breath hitched, he began to pull away, and they were face to face. 

He might have been just as surprised as Regis when he kissed him. He hadn't been expecting to, but in that moment the pull towards him was just too strong. He caught the vampire's lips with his, smooth and delicious like the rest of his skin. He moved his lips along the others slowly, savoring. When his tongue lapped lightly over his bottom lip, Regis seemed to snap out of a trance, pulling himself out of the embrace. His eyes were wide, so dark he couldn't tell pupil from iris. 

"Now, Geralt, I think you have had enough for tonight. Why don't you get ready for bed and I'll clean up?" His voice was tight, the upward inflection of the question coming out as a squeak. He turned and busied himself with loading their plates back onto the tray. 

"Aw hell Regis, I didn't mean to-" 

"Don't" Regis cut him off "I'm not upset. We all make mistakes when we're drunk. Now, Dettlaff must be wondering where I am, so let me get you settled in and I'll be going." 

Geralt furrowed his brows. "Are you and Dettlaff together? I'm sorry, I wouldn't have, y'know, if I had known." 

Regis stopped his frantic cleaning and turned "Geralt, don't worry. We can talk about this at a later date." His voice was closer to its normal pitch. He placed a glass of water on the nightstand, and smoothed a hand over Geralt's hair. The witcher looked up at him, every bit as miserable as he sounded. 

"Sleep, now, dear friend." Regis said, eyes flashing. Geralt yawned and laid back, suddenly very tired. 

Regis took the dirty tray and his satchel and slipped out of the room, sparing one last glance at the witcher's now-peaceful face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you hate it when you are a bit drunk and you go to mack on your crush and they use their vampire powers to make you fall asleep? 
> 
> Lot of feelings need to be resolved, here. Stay tuned!


	4. Choice Chance Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt sets out to make an apology. He meets Dettlaff instead.

When Geralt woke in the morning it was with a start. He had fallen asleep fully clothed and on his back, and shot up as though his spirit had just repossessed his form. His mouth was dry, and he grabbed the glass on the nightstand and downed it before sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. 

Last night... _ Oh right. Dinner, Regis...his smell, his taste? Oh fuck. Oh fuck I fucked up. _ Geralt's stream of consciousness followed the thread of last night's events. He had kissed Regis, after he swore he would leave those feelings alone. And worse, Regis had fled; hypnotizing him and leaving in short order. 

Geralt groaned aloud, scrubbing his hands over his face a few times before rising out of bed. In all honesty, he didn't expect Regis to be the type to take such offense to a drunken mistake ( _ not a mistake _ , part of him whispered), not to the point of using his powers. He needed to apologize, he just got his friend back and wasn't going to risk losing him over something as trivial as a kiss.

Scrubbing the awful taste from his mouth, Geralt contemplated his words.  _ I'm sorry I kissed you. I was lonely.  _ No, that made him sound like a last option. Not an apology.  _ I was drunk. _ Not very, and Regis would know that.  _ I missed you more than I've missed anyone who wasn't my actual daughter and I just had to.  _ Nope, too honest. 

Jumping to pull his braies on over his thighs and ass, Geralt decided he was just going to find Regis, read the mood, and go from there. Not the most solid plan, but he'd make himself dizzy trying to plan out his apology. What mattered was that he shouldn't have made his friend uncomfortable, that was the important part. 

After grabbing some fancy breakfast pastry from the front, Geralt left the inn in the direction of the tourney grounds. He didn't plan on doing it while Regis was at work, but just asking to meet with him after. He was trying  _ not _ to seem like an ass, after all. 

\--

Regis hadn't slept much last night, he kept replaying the evening's events in his mind. He left at first dawn for the cemetery, searching for mandrake and other herbs for his work. He needed to leave after Dettlaff had, infuriatingly, suggested that perhaps the witcher shared his feelings. That was preposterous, of course. He knew Geralt the best, after all, and knew he was just seeking comfort. 

In another lifetime, when he was still drinking, Regis would have been happy to go along with that. He would have also tried to drain his friend in the process, he thought with a shiver of disgust. 

As it was now, he had barely been able to stop himself from giving in to the kiss. Geralt had been so warm and willing in his arms and ripping himself away was almost impossible. But he could not let his feelings for his friend cloud his judgment. Geralt had just been talking about his split from Yennefer, for gods sakes. He was heartbroken, Regis could not in good conscience take advantage of that. 

Further, he knew himself well enough to know that if he had Geralt for one night, he would go mad wanting him again. It is easier to deny oneself of something when one does not know the details of what they are missing. He wiped the back of his wrist over his brow, trying to push away loose strands without getting dirt in his hair. A full day of collecting herbs would help settle him, and then he would be less of a coward and speak to Geralt. Maybe. 

\--

Sally had, without a doubt, been one of his most difficult repairs yet. The delicate doll was porcelain, wire, and cloth and had been savaged by some event. Yvette, with her big brown eyes and pin curls, had come into the show without her mother and asked if he would "do surgery" on her. She offered to pay him in shells she had collected. Dettlaff told her to keep her shells, and that he would help her Sally. 

So between carvings and paintings he had been commissioned to do, he sewed Sally a new frock of silk brocade with small golden flowers. Before bed, he was threading softened horsehair into the tiny pinholes on her head. Now, with fine-tipped brushes, he was painting Sally's face, giving her red lips the small upturn of a private smile. He hoped this pleased the little girl, she had been so brave for coming to speak to him. Dettlaff was well aware that many saw him as unapproachable, and he preferred it that way. Yvette, however, had not even flinched when he opened the door, just curtsied and asked him for help. 

He was roused out of his concentration by the shop door chiming downstairs. He only had his toy shop open a few days a week, he couldn't really bear humans enough to blend in with them every day, but Regis was out picking herbs and he was bored. He rose and walked downstairs, purposefully letting his footfalls make noise like Regis taught him. 

"Hello? Regis?" A gravelly voice called out. Ah. The witcher. Dettlaff paused to straighten his clothing and tried to appear relaxed. He descended the rest of the steps. 

"Regis is not here at the moment." He said by way of greeting. 

Geralt quickly put down the stuffed bear he had been examining. His eyes went wide as he looked at Dettlaff.

"You're the guy from the market." He said, not quite accusing. 

Dettlaff looked at the witcher's brows rather than the intense golden gaze. They were quite nice, if overgrown. 

"Yes. I apologize for that. I had not expected to see you. I am Dettlaff van der Eretein. Regis has mentioned me." He stepped closer to offer his hand, and the witcher did not flinch. He hesitantly offered his back in greeting. 

"Geralt." His voice was curt, a bit tight. 

The vampire noticed an almost imperceptible hum where their hands met. Magic, perhaps, coursing under the surface. His hand felt the ghost of it as he pulled away. 

"So, what brings you to our home?" 

\--

When Anje had told Geralt he could find Regis at his home above a toy shop, he had hesitated going. It felt rude to show up to his home unannounced, but he felt unsettled leaving the matter for another time. 

He considered his options, and decided that if he came over with something to eat, Regis' overwhelmingly good manners would kick in and he would have no choice but to accept a small tea time meal. He was in luck, because there was a small vendor by the toy shop that sold something that smelled delicious and looked like a croquette. They were small balls of fried goodness, as the sweet woman selling them described. He ordered enough to split between the two of them, placed in a cheap wooden bowl and covered with a light cloth to keep them fresh. 

The toy shop was easy to find, it was red with a worn rocking horse shaped sign. The whole building was a bit worn, he noticed, with the red paint on the house faded and flaking from the reflection of the hot sun off the water in the port. Regis always did pick odd places to live, he thought, this one was better than the graveyard-side hut in Dillingen. There was an open sign in the doorway, so he let himself in, a bell tinkling overhead as he did so. 

The shop was cool and a bit dim, but was indeed a toy shop. There were toy dolls, both cloth and carved, that lined knee-high shelves. On the far wall was a fleet of rocking horses, polished to high gloss. As he walked further into the shop, he called for Regis. A teddy bear brushed his shoulder from its perch on the shelf as he passed it, falling over. He caught it with a free hand, putting the lunch he brought down on a bare spot of shelf so he could look over the bear. Its fur was incredibly soft, long and deep brown in color. He was charmed, and spent a moment just feeling it in his hands. 

He heard clumsy footfall on the stairs behind him, someone coming from upstairs. It didn't sound like Regis, whose movement would be imperceptible anyway, so maybe it was the shop keeper. 

"Regis is not here at the moment." A deep accented voice came from the landing of the stairs. It did not at all match someone he would expect to have that sort of footfall. He turned, quickly putting the bear on its shelf. 

The man in front of him was tall, with skin somehow shades more pale than his own. He had black hair slicked back, with curls behind his ear and toward the nape. There were dignified silver streaks on the temples, and his eyes met with icy blue ones. Familiar ones.

"You're the guy from the market." His mouth said before he could stop himself.

The man's expression looked to be considering a smile. "Yes. I apologize for that. I had not expected to see you. I am Dettlaff van der Eretein. Regis has mentioned me." Geralt was able to place the accent as Nazairi, it gave the man a dignified air. The vampire stepped closer and held out his hand to properly greet him.

_ Huh, so this is Dettlaff. Not quite what I was expecting. _ He shook the other's hand after a moment, noting the nails that were sharper and longer than they had a right to be.

"Geralt." He returned. 

"So, what brings you to our home?" Asked Dettlaff, folding his hands behind his back.

Oh, right. He came to apologize. To Regis. For kissing him. And instead was his...lover? Geralt wasn't quite sure, but realized that most wouldn't be happy with someone else making advancements on their partner, let alone a higher vampire.  _ Not good _ , he thought, taking a moment to keep his heartbeat in check. 

"I...uh. Regis and I had a misunderstanding. I came to apologize. With lunch." He grabbed his take away from where it was resting on the shelf. "But if he's not here I can just leave it for him."

"Misunderstanding? I assume you're talking about the kiss." Dettlaff said, tone casual, like he was discussing the weather. It made Geralt nervous. 

"He told you? Well, yeah, I'm not going to lie and deny it." He paused, watching for a change on the other's face. There was none. "I shouldn't have done it, and it clearly upset him, not to mention you two seem to be, " he gestured vaguely, thinking of a word.

"Mated." Dettlaff supplied. 

"Mated?" Geralt said with wonderment. "Ahem, I mean, yes. That. Anyway, it was wrong of me. I'll leave these here, and I can come back another time if he's willing to speak to me." He pushed the bowl into the vampire's hands, ready to tuck tail and run like any smart witcher would do.

Dettlaff stared at him with an amused expression, which is about the last thing he expected. 

"Wait," Geralt paused mid turn, and went back to facing the taller man. "what are these, bitterballen? They won't be any good by the time Regis comes back from his errand. Why don't we share them? There's clearly enough for two." His tone was casual, and his face open in a way that lightened the severity of his features. 

Geralt's eyebrows hitched, betraying his surprise. "Not to make this awkward, but you're not going to, I don't know, attack me? For what happened?" Tempting fate was the worst thing he could have done here, but his damnable curiosity won out.

Dettlaff gave a surprised laugh, just a hint of fang being visible, nothing at all like the face-splitting grins Regis was prone to. Geralt couldn't help but notice how lovely his eyes were when he laughed, small crow's feet framing the sparkling blues. If Regis had chosen this man to be his partner, he could certainly see why; he was a strange beauty when not glaring a hole through the back of his head.

"Apologies. That is a much more silly question than you realize. I could not hurt you if I wanted to, we are technically a part of the same pack, you see. Hurting you would be harder than a human hurting his brother." Dettlaff turned to walk behind the counter of the shop and unlock a door, stepping through the threshold. Geralt followed him, though he didn't indicate him to do so.

"Well that's good to hear, I guess." He swiped his palm over the back of his neck where stray hairs were brushing on the sensitive skin. "What do you mean by 'pack'?" 

\--

They were in a quaint kitchen, he noticed. There was space for a small breakfast table, but the rest of the room was taken up by a stove and an alchemical set. There were drying herbs hanging off exposed beams in the rafters with phials of concoctions on almost every flat surface. Regis' homes were much like his mind, cluttered with an overwhelming amount of useful stuff that only he could navigate. 

"Looks like I know who runs the house around here." He quipped, fingers tracing along a semi-dried stalk of mistletoe.

Dettlaff grabbed two plates from the cupboard and placed them on the table. His lips were upturned in the slightest of smiles.

"Have you ever known him not to have the run of something once he's in it?" He gestured for Geralt to sit, he did so. 

"Are you kidding me? I've kicked him out of places and he still had the run of them." He grabbed a few of the croquettes (bitterballen must be the Nazairi word) by the little toothpicks they came skewered on and put them on his plate. 

"Exactly." Dettlaff said, and popped one of the treats into his mouth. 

"To answer your earlier question," he began after a moment, "we are a pack. Regis and I, in addition to being mates, have a blood bond that comes from my efforts to regenerate him. The blood bond is stronger and rarer than one would expect to find among higher vampires because it is meant for permanent partners. In some cases, a close friend perhaps. A  _ pack _ is similar, I am told, to your hansa. It is an emotional bond, an agreement to protect and care for each other, and is more informal. Most packs are formed by kind feelings and proximity, such as in your case. Typically, being with your pack brings great feelings of peace and comfort. They are hard to break, and doing so causes no small amount of emotional and physical pain. So, because I am bonded to Regis, and you are his pack, we are de facto packmates." 

Geralt took another bite, chewing as he processed the information given to him. He supposed he understood, it reminded him of when he first found Ciri. He looked at her and simply knew she was his, his child and his destiny and he loved her so deeply he could never bring himself to hurt her. 

"Does it happen often with beings who aren't higher vampires?" He asked, tipping his head to the side in thought.

"It can. I have heard of humans being accepted into a pack, but it is rare. I have several bruxae who I am bonded with in such a way. We lived in a warren together for many years before Regis and I moved to Beauclair. Something interesting, though, is that Regis mentioned he suspects you have vampire mutagens from your witcher trials. Is this true? It would explain why he bonded to you so easily." 

"And here I assumed it was my winning personality." Geralt deadpanned. Dettlaff just blinked at him, not understanding. 

"Anyway, I know in the base trials they used albino bruxae tongue. I don't think I'll ever know what they used in the additional trials they gave me, though." It felt strange to casually talk about the secrets of the trials after centuries of them being protected. If Regis trusted Dettlaff, which clearly he did, then Geralt could as well. It wasn't as if a higher vampire would be in the business of making more witchers, anyway. 

Dettlaff hummed low in his throat, thinking. It was a pleasant rumble, reminding Geralt of the jaguars and panthers he had encountered on his journey to Toussaint.

"I am not the alchemist that Regis is, but you should discuss this with him. He might know more." 

"If he forgives me, that is." 

Dettlaff smiled and shook his head. "You really believe he is upset with you."

Geralt's mouth screwed up into a sour expression. "Well, I don't hypnotize people to sleep and leave when I'm having a good time, so yes."

Dettlaff's hands, which had been folded on the table in front of them, opened palm-up and he gave a small shrug. "Fair. Witcher, have you noticed that our kindly doctor is rather easy to embarrass? I pay him a compliment and he waves it away every time." 

He considered this a moment, it was no secret that Regis was shy. He himself admitted as much as a motivator for his drinking earlier in life. 

"So he's bashful. I don't see what that has to do with our situation." Geralt crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. Some part of him recognized the absurdity of talking about this with Regis' partner, but what has this whole experience been  _ but  _ absurd. 

"Well one might  _ infer _ that-" Dettlaff cut himself off, exasperated. He leaned his elbow on the table and held his head up by two fingers at his temple. 

"It is clear," he began in a more even voice, "that you two have a lot to discuss. All I can assure you is that this will hardly be the event that turns Regis away from you, and you're foolish for thinking otherwise." 

_ Is that supposed to be reassuring me? _ Geralt thought. Still, hearing the vampire tell him that Regis will still be in his life was a comfort.

"Thanks, I think." He said with a hesitant tone.

Dettlaff gave a small smile. "I'm glad I can be of service." Then, a pause. He sits up straighter in his chair. "I must tell you that I am enjoying our time together. Regis speaks often of you, and I admit I thought he was biased, given his interest in humans. I have no such delusions of humanity, but I find you to be refreshing." 

"Alright, I know that one was a compliment." The witcher said, genuine surprise in his voice. "Weirdly enough, I think I am enjoying this too." 

And it was true. Though he had been anxious when he realized just  _ who _ the man in front of him was, Dettlaff was disarmingly honest. He was frank in his words and actions, and Geralt knew he was capable of great kindness because of Regis. He had always had a knack for sussing out the true nature of sentient beings, but even still, he did not usually trust this quickly. 

_ I wonder if this has anything to do with the pack bond thing? _ He wondered, but filed the question away for another time. Curious as he was, he can only process so much at once.

Their conversation turned easily to more trivial things. Dettlaff explained that they had only been in Toussaint for half a year at this point. He talked about his shop, how he enjoys making things for others, bringing beauty in the world. He found humans to be confusing and at times unpredictable, but was appreciative of the universal desire to behold beautiful things. Especially children, who were unabashed in their enjoyment, seemed to bring a spark of joy to his pale face. 

The more he talked, the more Geralt could pick out pieces of Regis' mannerisms. A quirked eyebrow here, a certain dismissive noise there, they were brief flashes into the life they spent together while Geralt had believed Regis was dead. Part of it made him sad and regretful of the time they spent apart, but the larger part of him was warmed by being able to get to know the man who cared for his friend so well. Apparently so well they fell in love, which made him less jealous than he might have thought it would. 

Dettlaff ended up encouraging him to leave, promising to tell Regis that he stopped by and wanted to talk. To his logic, Geralt being at his home would probably make him anxious and then he'd run off again. 

"The secret," Dettlaff whispered in a conspiratorial way as they stood at the door, "is that he needs to build up the nerve to do anything others would see as small. But if there is something truly terrifying he is the first to act."

Geralt smiled, lopsided. "That's him alright. I wouldn't have him any other way, though." 

Dettlaff returned his smile. "Nor would I. Goodbye, witcher."

"Bye, Dettlaff. I'm sure we will see each other soon." He said, giving a short wave and stepping out. Despite not completing what he set out to do, he felt lighter. And, if he were truthful, he found it nice to speak to someone who knew Regis as he did. The only other people who he had ever been able to do that with were Zoltan and Dandelion, and even then only rarely. 

It also made him realize how truly and deeply enamored he was with the vampire. He had seen it reflected in Dettlaff's open adoration of him, he felt those same things for Regis many times when they traveled together, and more still in these past few days. He resolved to be more careful, he had no intention of letting his interest go any further. It couldn't. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dettlaff is the one watching other people not pick up on a social situation, for once. Its funny, if irritating. We'll find out more about how he felt in the next chapter.
> 
> Also, bitterballen is a dutch dish, and i believe nazir is supposed to be based on the netherlands. So, there.
> 
> Let me know if this longer format is interesting or if i need to switch it up.


	5. Blessing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an important conversation, though not the one we were hoping for just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be aware, there's some smut here, not super graphic i think but still.

After the witcher left, Dettlaff cleared the dishes with the intent of heading back to his workshop. The scent of him still hung in the air of the kitchen under the herbs and food. He smelled the sharpness of metal, and certainly the musk natural to a human man, but there was something else. It was almost like a cleanliness, an invigorating scent that he normally associated with one of his own kind but crisper, somehow. Hm, it appears Regis may have been right about the vampire genes present in his mutations. 

It would certainly explain the anomaly that was their interaction today. He was never one for spontaneous company, but he had stifled his discomfort when he saw how much Geralt had wanted to apologize about that night. Even in the face of a higher vampire who could have punished him for encroaching on his mate (or some such antiquated nonsense) he kept true to his goal. 

It was endearing, to see his care and respect for his mate. It also further solidified in his mind that he was right about the two of them. This wasn't a surprise, he may not have the skill for reading others that some had but this was fairly obvious. He expected Regis to be the type to admire from afar no matter the object of his affections. If they hadn't spent most every moment together for years, Dettlaff suspected that he would have never revealed his romantic intentions. It was some combination of the older vampire's nature and experiences that made him adverse to confronting matters of the heart. Dettlaff saw it as untangling a nest of strings, he would think he found the point of his lover's crippling shyness, only to stumble onto more and more ways it had knotted within him. 

He understood, he supposed, as well as he could. He had not pursued many romantic partners himself, though he had less interest in doing so. Regis was his first steady mate in, oh, almost a century? On the grand stage of time, they had only been mated for a short while, and their connection was deeper than most due to the aid of their blood-bond. He was patient, he didn't mind taking centuries to untangle Regis, if that's what it required. 

He didn't understand much about witchers, but Regis had explained that, provided they didn't die in battle, witchers could live long lives. Centuries, though no one knew the true cutoff. For higher vampires, this wasn't that long, and as he ascended the stairs back to his workshop, he found himself wondering if that would be enough time for Geralt to also untangle the uncertainties inside Regis.

\--

There was nothing like a day of toil to exhaust a prattling mind. By the end of the day, Regis had enough stock for both his hooch and his medicine that he would not have to worry about running low for quite a while. He did feel more settled, less likely to turn heel and run at the thought of Geralt. Which, he did have to do something about, and what if the witcher didn't even remember and he had been fussing over nothing? Oh, wouldn't that be cosmically hilarious, for him to squirm and be burdened with the responsibility of telling his lovely white-haired companion that he made a foolish drunken mistake? 

_ What a mess!  _ He thought, catching up to his stream of consciousness.  _ Well, the peace was good while it lasted. _

Dettlaff greeted him at the door, taking his bag of herbs wordlessly and pulling him close. Regis tucked his head under his chin as Dettlaff scented him. He pulled away, however, with a look that was more than a little accusatory.

"I thought you were out clearing your head." He said, thumb rubbing through a smear of dirt that must have been left on the apple of his cheek. 

"I did. It worked until I noticed it worked." He said, leaning into the touch. 

"Hm. I thought this might happen. I drew you a bath, I'd like to wash you." 

"Love," Regis began, his lips upturned slightly, "it has been some time since I've needed you to wait on me. I can bathe myself." 

Dettlaff's piercing eyes glinted the way he did when he was planning something. He began guiding him toward the kitchen, where he'd rolled the basin in. The table and chairs of their breakfast nook had been moved out to make room enough for them to move about the space. Steam from the hot water carried the scent of orange and cinnamon extract, something he only added to his baths when he needed to relax. 

The younger vampire wordlessly set down Regis' pack on the table reserved for his alchemy and came up behind him. Gentle arms wrapped around his chest as Dettlaff leaned in close. 

"I'm very aware of how self-sufficient you are, my heart. Let me do this for you anyway." His voice was low in his ear, and deft hands came to undo the buttons of his shirt. 

"Oh, if you're going to be  _ pushy _ about it, what choice do I have?" Regis teased, sagging into the embrace.

Dettlaff kissed along the column of his neck, thanking him. He undressed Regis slowly, with the sort of reverence usually reserved for worship. When he had regained his strength, the older vampire foolishly thought that this aspect of their relationship would come to an end, that surely Dettlaff would be tired of caring for him. Instead, all that changed was the tone of these moments, from familial and helpful to sensual. He watched the dark-haired man slowly unlace his boots and pull them off one at a time, rolling his ankle to relax some of its tension. It turned out, somehow, incredibly, that Dettlaff could just give and give and  _ give _ without ever stopping, and he was powerless to do anything about it. 

With his lover now undressed, Dettlaff simply misted out of his clothing. The contrast between the two actions made Regis huff a laugh through his nose. 

"You know, I can do that too." 

The younger vampire stepped into the bath and held out a hand toward him. He took it.

"Yes, but I like my way more." He said as he pulled Regis into the tub. The water was blessedly warm, soothing him as he sunk in slowly. A vampire could stand stark naked in a blizzard and be disaffected, but that did not mean they would enjoy it. He settled against Dettlaff's chest, content to just soak and breathe in the comforting aroma of the oils and  _ them _ . The smell of home.

After a few moments, he was gently pushed forward as his mate poured warm water over the crown of his head. It seems he was intent on actually bathing Regis after all. 

\--

He was maddeningly slow, methodical in every last action as he washed his lover. Regis was floating somewhere between a meditative state and arousal, half-hard against his leg but not particularly concerned about it. For the moment he was content to feel the slow drag of the washrag, and the way Dettlaff's thumbs would knead into a particularly tense muscle. While he had long since banished the feeling that he was undeserving of his mate's affections, he still caught himself wondering what he had done to deserve someone this  _ good. _ Someone who's love poured into every action no matter the situation. 

"My dear, put your elbows on the edge for me." Dettlaff asked, his Nazairi accent thicker as it only got when he was deep in concentration. With a puzzled look, Regis did as he was told, watching the younger vampire shuffle to kneel between his legs. 

A startled " _ oof _ " was knocked out of him as Dettlaff wrapped an arm under his waist and pulled his lower half into his lap. He was stretched out over the water, his warm skin giving off tendrils of steam. His mate leaned forward, kissing and nipping along his stomach and free hand fondling him.

" _ Ooh _ " he sighed, the pleasure that had been blooming slow and easy coming to the forefront of his mind. Dettlaff hummed as he wrapped his lips around his nipple, running his tongue over it. Regis tipped his head back, letting himself just take whatever the other was willing to give. 

Apparently, he was willing to give quite a lot. He was stroked to full hardness as Dettlaff bit and sucked along his torso, giving encouraging hums at every reaction. Tentatively, Regis eased his hold on the bond to allow his pleasure to be felt, and the younger vampire moaned against his skin. He ducked down and took Regis' tip into his mouth without ceremony, and he gasped and bucked his hips, chasing the sensation. 

Dettlaff wasn't letting him move, his hand a steel grip on his hip. He circled his tongue slowly around the head, enough that he could feel every ridge. He lapped over his slit and Regis hissed out a breath, twitching with his desire to thrust deeper. 

Much like the rest of his actions this evening, his mate was taking his time. He would swallow him down for a moment, just long enough to feel the fluttering of his throat on his most sensitive parts, before pulling back and holding his base. He would roll his sac in his hand and bite sharply on the inside of his thigh before leaving open-mouthed kisses on the already healed skin. 

At this point he was leaking profusely, clear beads of precum dripping from the head of his prick, and Dettlaff was drinking them all down. In other circumstances, Regis would be happy to see how long he could take the other's ministrations, but tonight he felt raw, every touch too sweet to resist. 

"Love,  _ please, _ I need to,  _ please, _ " he was begging, looking down his body to watch the dark head of hair bobbing between his legs. Cool eyes opened to look at him and he felt stuck, held in place by the gaze. Dettlaff opened his end of the bond, flashing  _ approval  _ and  _ love _ . He also sent something Regis might, in his more rational mind describe as agapē: actualizing, selfless, all-encompassing love. 

He took Regis to his root once more, eyes still locked on his, and he came, spilling into his lover's throat. Dettlaff swallowed it down, continuing to suck him through his aftershocks.

Once he pulled off, Regis pushed himself off the edge of the tub and fully into the other's lap, threading his hand into Dettlaff's curls and pulling his head back for a kiss. Their tongues twirled together, he could taste himself and licked deeper, chasing it. 

He wrapped a hand around Dettlaff's length, only for it to be pulled away. He parted their lips and looked at his mate.

"You seem to forget that I derive as much pleasure as you do from pleasing you." Dettlaff said, his voice rough. 

"Hm, will you do me the great trouble of allowing one more bit of pleasure?" Regis replied, smiling to show his tongue running over his fangs. 

Dettlaff groaned, and tilted his head back to allow his lover access to his throat. Though Regis did not feed from him anymore out of need, mates will bite to reaffirm their bond, or simply take advantage of the aphrodisiatic nature of their venom. He was planning on doing a little of both. 

The slide of his fangs through flesh broke both of them out in gooseflesh, and Regis reveled in the feeling of the pressure behind his fangs receding as venom pumped into the wound. Beneath him, Dettlaff was straining, seized by the white heat of pleasure lacing through him. Regis took him in hand again, and he did not stop him, choosing to pull him even closer, one hand around his torso and the other on the back of his neck. The bond was still open for both of them, pleasure surging back and forth in a feedback loop, growing more intense and focused with each stroke of Regis' hand. 

Dettlaff gave a cut-off groan as he shuddered and came, spilling over the both of them. 

Regis withdrew his fangs, dragging his tongue over the wound despite it closing near instantly. He then covered as much of his mate as he could with kisses. 

"You are so beautiful like that, my dear." He told the younger vampire, running his nails lightly over the back of his neck. Another tremor went through Dettlaff at the sensation. 

" _ Ah,"  _ he gasped, "you didn't even see anything, you were biting me." 

Regis cupped his face in both hands, looking very intently at him. 

"I could go blind tomorrow and I would still be able to say, with absolute certainty, that you look stunning doing just about anything." His voice was gentle, as relaxed and loose as he was. He pressed a kiss to Dettlaff's lips and tucked his face into his rapidly frizzing curls, letting him absorb the words in silence.

\--

"I must confess that I did have an ulterior motivation for our evening." Dettlaff told him as they curled up in bed. Regis placed the book he had picked up back on to the nightstand and turned to him. 

"Oh? I might have thought as much, I was pampered far too deeply for it to be a simple surprise." He was joking, but Dettlaff made a face that indicated he wasn't really sure. 

"A joke, Dettlaff. You know I trust you." He soothed.

"Ah. Good." He began, "I was thinking, and I believe you were right about Geralt having some of our genes in his blood." 

Regis raised his brows, "What makes you say that?" 

"He came to the house today to apologize to you for kissing you. He brought bitterballen, which was very good." His voice was light, conversational. Regis' eyes were bugging out of his head.

"He was. Here? In the house?" He paused, flabbergasted, then "you SPOKE to him?" 

Dettlaff sat up a little more straight, looking prideful. 

"I did. We had a pleasant conversation. I learned a lot. He smells like us, you know. He said they use albino bruxae tongue in the mutagens, but he had extra trials so he doesn't know if that's all." 

Regis tucked the fact away for later, there were more pressing matters at hand. 

"What did he say about the kiss? Why did he tell you?" His voice was higher than normal, tense. Part of him wanted,  _ needed _ , to know how Geralt viewed the whole thing, and the other part of him wanted to plug his ears. 

"He thinks he's offended you. He also thought he offended me. Regis, did you not tell him we were mated? He looked rather surprised when I mentioned it." Dettlaff's tone was that of genuine curiosity. 

Regis blinked. "What do you mean? I've gone on at length about you. Especially when telling him about the regeneration, I told him about how compassionate and selfless you are, even if you are broody."

"You have described Geralt with those exact qualities, you realize. He may have thought I was another 'friend.'" Dettlaff pointed out, placing extra emphasis on the association. 

Regis was about to rebuff the comment, then thought better of it. With growing mortification, he realized he  _ did _ talk about the two quite similarly. 

Thinking back to the other night, he remembered the look of realization on Geralt's face when he claimed Dettlaff was waiting up for him at home. He drew his knees close and put his face in his hands.

"Oh  _ Gods _ , I'm an idiot." His lament was muffled as it came through his fingers. 

Dettlaff frowned, and brought his arm around his mate's shoulder. 

"I am...unsure if this will help, but for what it's worth, Geralt thinks he's an idiot, too. He thought you were going to end your friendship." 

Regis groaned loudly from the confines of his hands. How had he messed up this severely? 

"I see. That was not helpful. This is not what I had hoped would happen." He leaned his head to rest on Regis' and sighed.

The older vampire peeked out from between his fingers, curiosity roused. 

"What  _ did _ you hope to happen?" He asked.

"I was going to tell you that I, well, that I approved of your witcher." He stumbled through the admission, nervous to upset Regis further. 

"What do you mean you approve of him?" Regis was no longer hiding his face in his hands, and the two moved to look at each other. Well, Dettlaff wasn't looking at him, but rather his hands, pensive expression on his face as he considered the matter. This was a serious thing for him. 

"I found him enjoyable. He was kind, and honest, and wanted to get to know me because I mattered to you. He cares for you a great deal, and I know you feel the same. I would like to encourage you to pursue this. Provided you don't go adventuring without me, that is." He looked up at Regis then, his glacial eyes hopeful and a small smile on his face. He reached out and took his partner's hands in his. 

It was as if something tripped in his brain, Regis was thinking of everything and nothing all at once. Question after question came to his mind, making him dizzy.  _ Dettlaff wants me to see Geralt? He had liked him enough to give his blessing? I won't lose him? What does this mean? Would Geralt even accept?  _

"My love," Dettlaff prompted, no doubt concerned by the dazed look on Regis' face. After a moment his eyes flicked back to the dark-haired man's face, mouth hung open. 

"I don't," he began in a shaky voice "I don't really know what to say. This is all so much." 

Dettlaff's posture relaxed, more comfortable now that he realized the unfamiliar look on his mate's face was related to speechlessness. 

"A simple 'yes, dear' would suffice."

A surprised laugh escaped Regis' chest before he could register it. He looked at his partner, the beautiful, solid, immeasurably kind-hearted soul in front of him. He didn't know how he could be worthy of one such man, let alone two. But he wanted to, wanted to hold them both close and safe and there for him, as selfish as it may be. 

He shoved his way into Dettlaff's arms and pushed him until he was laying on top of the taller vampire. He kissed him once, twice, a third time. 

"There are a lot of factors in this that need to be worked out at a later date. So for now I will say yes, dear Dettlaff, I understand that you permit me to seek something out with Geralt. Thank you, for being the most thoughtful, loving, brilliant man in this world. I love you."

Strong arms wrapped around him and he was pulled into a crushing kiss. 

"And I you, my heart."

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really doing my best to make this story follow my interpretation of ethical polyamory bc boy have i been in less than ideal thruples. What do you think? 
> 
> Also are y'all tired of the fluff yet? I keep trying to reign it in but my heart wants what it wants.


	6. Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> finally, finally, this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: While im gender questioning, my experience is not the same as that of a trans man's. I tried to depict Geralt's attitude toward his body as that of confidence and satisfaction. If at any point in the story something doesn't land quite right, please tell me. 
> 
> ALSO! Silenceisaweapon made the kick-ass gif header on the tumblr post! bask in it, it's so beautiful. She is also now beta'ing for me, so thank you two-fold!!

Though still unsettled by worry, it turns out that meeting with Dettlaff had done enough to allow Geralt to sleep through the night. He awoke to a knock on the door, light and delicate but clear as a bell to his ears. That young serving woman again, he thought. He rolled out of bed and padded to the door, opening it for her. 

The girl, barely in her twenties from the look of it, flushed a deep red when she saw he was only in his small clothes. He couldn't have been bothered to dress for someone who had woken him up. 

"I, uhm, Master Witcher, there's a summons for you." She held out a silver dish on shaky hands. On it was a gold lamé envelope, with a thick wax seal bearing the duqessa's crest. He plucked it off the tray. 

"Thank you, Colette." His voice sticking around the words with left-over sleep. She bowed her head, keeping her gaze averted and all but scurried out of his entryway. 

Closing the door and sitting on the edge of the bed, he popped the seal and opened the heavily perfumed letter. The script was immaculate, swooping and curling in a way that made him think of art more than correspondence. It read:

_ Most Honorable Geralt of Rivia, Master Witcher, Slayer of all Foul Beasts, _

_ On the order of Her Illustrious Highness, Duchess Anna Henrietta, your presence is requested at the building of the ducal treasury no later than noontime today to discuss matters of the duchy's contracts. Do not delay, as the people of Toussaint request great aid in vanquishing the evils that linger in our great land! _

Well, that was quicker than he had expected. He was heartened to see that the duchess had decided to follow through on her plan of having him address some of the monster contracts while he was here. It would keep him well-fed and allow him to spend time with Regis when he was ready. And maybe Dettlaff, now that he thought of it. 

While noon was a ways off, he did not want to fall out of favor by being late or unprepared. With a stretch, he got up and began to inspect his armor and blades, making sure they were up to snuff for the meeting. Toussaint's ideas of heroism and glory did not stop with the knights-errant and though he did lack their eye-catching gear, he knew how to wear his to maintain a presence. He would need to project an air of confidence, of power in order to prove he was worth the price. 

Thankfully, the trip he had made to Yoana before coming to Toussaint had paid off. His master wolf armor was in good shape, shining black and red with the special dye job he had requested. He had worn armors of all types, but nothing fit him as well as witcher's armor, and nothing as well as what Yoana crafted. He always felt a sense of pride before donning it, like he was embodying what he was meant to be. Yes, this would be perfect. 

As he shucked off his smalls, he caught his reflection in the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. Ever obsessed with appearance, the people of Toussaint manage to have mirrors in their inns, whereas most in the north couldn't even manage to have a door that locked. The piece was a symbol of wealth and vanity, something he didn't usually come across day-to-day. 

Curiosity drew him closer. Without dressing, he approached the mirror, eyes trained on his own face. 

"Gods, I really am getting old." He muttered to his reflection as he traced new wrinkles with his fingers. It didn't bother him, per se, to see the lines on his face. It was much more about the time they represented, the fact that he had experienced  _ so much _ and still had a possibility of many years to go. 

Stepping back and taking in his full form, he thought similarly about some of the scars on his body. There was such a collection of them that at times he thought his surface was mostly scar tissue. Some of them didn't bother him, like the slashes along his hip that he had collected so long ago he could hardly remember. Others, like the marks left by the pitchfork that had been run through him, made him mournful. 

Tearing his eyes away from them, he focused on the scars that brought him joy; the two, small incisions on the underside of his pectorals. They were so old and so well healed that they were little more than faint silver lines, but they carried so much weight. The mages at Kaer Morhen were practiced in removing what little breast tissue grew in spite of the trials, and he was no exception. He was glad for it at the time, even though he had not been able to raise his arms above his head for weeks, it was one step closer to becoming a witcher, to seizing his destiny. 

Seizing destiny. That's how he had thought of it, even from the very beginning. He remembered the Trial of Choice, how those disgusting salads and teas had spurred his growth, essentially triggering puberty for him and all the other boys. He'd watched himself shoot up, grow new muscles seemingly overnight. His eyes traced up his body before him in the mirror, remembering the thrill of watching himself grow into what he was meant to be. His gaze paused at his cock, soft but still peaking out from between his lips a bit, protected by the hood. The trial had changed him there, too. Made him grow bigger and more responsive as he and the other boys all grew into their witcher libido. How many nights had he and Eskel spent in their room, hands in their own pants trying to figure out how to sate themselves? Probably more than he cared to count, he thought with a smirk. 

Ultimately, he was satisfied with what he saw in the mirror. Some pieces were painful, would always be, but it was him. A capable, strong witcher who cared for his kin and did what needed doing. And  _ definitely  _ worth top dollar to the ducal treasury. He turned to dress, thinking about what the barmaid might have available for breakfast. 

\--

Regis had spent so much time mustering up the nerve to see Geralt that he hadn't thought about what to do in the event that he wasn't at the inn. 

Which, really, he should have expected given that Geralt was the nomadic sort. The barmaid, who regarded his dusty boots with violent disdain, told him that the witcher had stepped out. 

"I don't know when this became a boarding house," she said in her accented Common, "but I don't keep track of all the comings and goings. You can wait here, if you buy something." She popped her bar rag over her shoulder and looked at him expectantly. 

Regis held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, "It's quite alright. Thank you for taking the time to let me know." She had turned away from him before he finished talking, disinterested in wasting breath on someone who wasn't a customer. 

Regis sighed and left. He pondered his options for a moment, he could come back later. But he was anxious to not let this conversation wait, lest his confidence flag. 

With a curse under his breath, Regis ducked into the alleyway. Checking to make sure no one was around, he turned himself to mist, and drifted through the open door of the inn once again, up the stairs by way of airflow and under the door he knew to be Geralt's. Once inside, he let himself slowly solidify into shape.

After a beat, he rolled his neck, wiggled his toes, got used to the feeling of being whole. Though he did not mention it to Dettlaff, misting was still a process for him. He was able to enter the form just fine, but exiting it could be draining. He knew that, healed though he was, he still had time to go before some actions would be as natural as they had been. 

The discomfort he felt was washed away with breathing in Geralt's scent. After staying at the inn for several days, it had built up everywhere, making the whole room feel like coming home. The more primal side of his brain wanted to make a nest out of the bedsheets, to rub himself on them. That way when Geralt came back, it would be  _ their _ nest. 

As much as Regis had fantasized about having Geralt as a mate, they were not together, which would make his urges very inappropriate if he were to act on them. With some effort, Regis pulled himself out onto the terrace, to the little table where they had shared dinner only a few nights ago, and sat. From his satchel, he pulled out his field journal and a pencil. What he wouldn't give for an actual quill and ink, but they did not tend to travel well. 

He stared blankly at an empty page of the journal. Normally, he'd sketch out a specimen to use in his medicine, or write a small verse. Now, anything he thought of doing was only half-formed in his mind, distracted by his internal monologue of  _ what if? _ It was irritating, to say the least. He huffed a sigh, sensitive nose still picking up the musk in Geralt's scent as it lazily rolled out of the open terrace door. It both calmed and thrilled him. 

_ Good gods above, _ Regis thought,  _ I hope he's not gone long. _

\--

Geralt had left the treasury and finally was able to allow his face the honest reaction it wanted. Looking over the portfolio (he admired the duchy's preparation, at least) his eyebrows raised at the sheer  _ number _ of distinct bruxae and katakan contracts. There were eighteen in all, and he was wondering how the city of Beauclair hadn't been drained dry just yet. Tracking and dispatching even one of these could take him well over a week if he was diligent. He felt excited by the promise of a handsome reward, but was a bit concerned about the logistics. Perhaps there was a local resource to learn more about why so many vampires seemed to flock to the area. 

He pondered his plan of attack the whole walk back to the Pheasantry, so wrapped in thought he didn't even greet the workers as he entered. Taking the stairs two at a time, Geralt was eager to get back to his room to take notes on each contract. He kept the stride as he entered his room, only to be stopped short by something out of place. 

Regis was on the terrace, sitting ram-rod straight and looking directly at him. He was fidgeting with something in his hands, dark eyes holding Geralt's as he approached. 

"...Regis. Hey." He managed to get out, surprise turning his tongue into a dead fish. 

With a start, Regis looked down to his hands, then back up. He gave an unsteady smile. 

"I came to restock your gauze. From the other day." He held out the bandages like an offering. His posture and behavior belied that he had not come all the way here on an errand. 

Geralt sighed. "Regis, I wasn't worried about the bandages." He stepped closer and took them anyway, noticing how tense the vampire was as he did. He frowned and stepped back, head bowed.

"Look, I-"

"Geralt, there's-"

They both smiled awkwardly, and Regis shook his head. "You first."

Geralt sighed again, the movement raising and lowering his shoulders. 

"I'm sorry. About kissing you. Having you back has been amazing. The last thing I want is to push you away. So, please don't think I'm going to get in the way of what you and Dettlaff have." The folio was still tucked under his arm, his other hand rising to scratch the back of his neck while he pointedly avoided Regis' eyes. 

\--

If he were human, Regis was sure his knees would be knocking together from the strength of his nerves. Right before Geralt had entered the room, he had foolishly convinced himself that he would be able to face his fears. Now, with the object of his affections in front of him, he wasn't so sure. His worry seeped through the bond, and Dettlaff pulsed  _ encouragement _ and  _ support _ to him. 

"Geralt, I feel I have to apologize as well. I acted the way I did because I have not been...honest. With you." He was staring at Geralt's polished black boots, keen eyes picking up the blurred reflections on the toe. 

Golden eyes snapped to his face. "What do you mean?" His confusion was apparent, he wasn't expecting his apology to be met with another one. 

Regis took an unnecessary but steadying breath, the tinge of the scent of frost in the air coming from Geralt's person soothed him. 

"I left not because I was offended by you, rather quite the opposite. I was never brave enough to tell you in our time together, but my heart has loved you-- _ I  _ have loved you, for a very long time. And I had assumed that you did not feel the same. So when you kissed me, I panicked. And I used my abilities to put you to sleep because I was too cowardly to face what I felt."

His hands were twisting and pulling at the strap of his bag tightly, nervous energy demanding some outlet. Geralt was looking at him now, gaze so strong it could have bore through him. 

"Loved me?" Geralt's voice was incredibly faint in comparison to the intensity of his stare, almost dream-like. 

Regis collected himself enough to muster meeting the gaze, seeing confusion swirling with fire inside the golden depths. 

"Yes, Geralt. I had always thought you an exceptionally good man, but when you learned my nature and spared me anyway...well, it didn't matter that you told me to leave. I knew at that moment I would have followed you anywhere. To a higher vampire, that is the primary symptom of love." His throat was tight, he was admitting what he had sworn to himself was something he would never address. It was somehow both infinitely easier and harder than he had imagined. 

Geralt's brow furrowed deeply, he looked down for a moment before his head snapped back up. 

"What about Dettlaff?" He asked.

Regis could have laughed. Here he was making a confession of love and Geralt was worried about the feelings of another person. His heart swelled at the genuine selflessness.

"He was the one who encouraged me to come here, to tell you. He seems to think that perhaps you might...return my affections." He cleared his throat, realizing the inane nature of the comment. 

If it were possible, Geralt's brows knit even closer together. 

"So your…" he began after a moment. "your mate told you to confess your feelings to your friend, a witcher, because he thinks  _ I feel the same way? _ " His voice raised in pitch with the question, taken aback by how strange it all sounded in his ears. 

Regis was eased, in some sadistic way, to see that he wasn't the only one who didn't understand how they had all gotten here. 

"Higher vampires are not typically monogamous; we can pursue relationships with more than one person if we so desire. He gave me his blessing, for lack of a better term, after you met with him. It seems he was quite charmed by you." He smiled then, thinking of the two of them chatting in his kitchen. 

The wrinkles around Geralt's mouth and eyes softened, his expression more open as he understood what Regis was saying. 

"A relationship. Is that...is that what you want? With me?" His eyes were searching Regis' face, flicking back and forth for a hint to his thoughts. 

With the last of his courage, Regis stepped closer to the taller man, grabbing his free hand and clasping it in both of his between the two of them. He looked up at Geralt, almost breathless from the proximity between them. 

"If you would have me, I can think of nothing on this earth I'd want more." His voice wavered but he kept himself standing firmly, the warmth of Geralt's hand in his centering him. 

Geralt's mouth was on his in an instant. Far from the light kiss he placed the other night, this kiss was firm, sure as his lips moved over Regis'. He smiled wide into the kiss, finally able to return it. He noted, now that he allowed himself to enjoy it, how Geralt's touch seemed to leave his skin buzzing, just a little. Geralt let go of his hand in favor of pressing them closer together, whatever he was holding tossed onto the bed so he could encircle the vampire. 

It was indescribable, his entire body felt like a taut line finally given slack, like his chest had relaxed enough for his heart to fully beat. Geralt drew back and it was too soon, too soon. He wanted them pressed together for as long as it took to make up for all their time apart. 

Geralt looked at him with an expression of awe, his lips reddened slightly and parted. 

"If it is really okay with you both, I want to be with you. I was stupid to not act on it once, I can't make that same mistake again." His voice was thick with emotion, eyes fierce with conviction.

_ Not to act on it once... _ Regis' mind latched on to the comment.

He pondered for a moment before barking out a laugh that had bubbled in his chest, giddy and a bit hysterical. Geralt smiled down at him, confused but charmed by the way Regis could never hide his joy when he was tickled by something.

"What?" He asked.

"We are fools, truly. All this time wasted because we were too cowardly to say anything." He was still smiling as he shook his head at the ridiculousness of it all. Geralt broke out into a wide grin, and Regis noticed, not for the first time, his elongated canines. 

"It looks like we have a lot to make up for then. We're here now, after all." Geralt said, guiding the vampire's chin up and kissing him again. Regis hummed into the kiss, agreeing, and traced his tongue along the seam of Geralt's lips. Geralt's tongue met his eagerly, the two exploring and mapping each other. Just like Dettlaff, Geralt seemed to have a steady fascination with the points of his fangs, tip traveling along them like a razor's edge. 

Turnabout being fair play and all, Regis did the same to his unusual points and felt a divot similar to where venom would come out of  _ his  _ fangs. It was interesting from a scholar's standpoint and exciting as a lover's, the possibility of his vampiric nature. He ran his hands along the sides of Geralt's armor, hoping for more skin contact.

A strong breeze caught the open door to the terrace and channeled into the room, ruffling their hair. The breeze picked up a paper that had slipped loose of the forgotten folder on Geralt's bed and sent it flying. Regis caught it without so much as breaking the kiss, much to the surprise of Geralt. They parted as he took the paper from Regis' hand. 

"Nice catch." He quipped, flipping the page over in his hand to look at it. Regis caught sight of a sketch of what appeared to be a katakan male; the artist had taken time to draw the many golden adornments it had. 

"Contract?" He asked, curious. 

Geralt nodded, and broke their embrace to collect the folder. He handed it to Regis. 

"The work the duchess had for me. This place is crawling with lesser vampires. I'm going to be busy for a long _ , long _ , time trying to clear them all out." He didn't sound frustrated, in fact, he had a raring interest in his voice. He was a man presented with a challenging puzzle and ready to crack it. 

Regis skimmed the many pages in front of him. There were some patterns in the areas affected that would suggest a warren, though bigger than any he had encountered. 

"May I take some notes? I'd like to show these to Dettlaff, he has a way with these breeds that may prove useful." He was already digging his notebook out from his bag again, sitting on the bed so he could spread the papers out. Belatedly, he realized he might have asked first, but when he looked up at Geralt he saw a fond expression. He wondered if Geralt had been this open the whole time, and he was too self-concerned to notice. 

"If it will help. I am lost on where to start, with how many there are." He undid the harnesses for his swords and sat next to Regis on the bed, the two of them pouring over the information collected by the duchy. 

Emboldened by the more than fortunate events of the day, his unoccupied hand reached out and found Geralt's. He threaded their fingers together, catching the dawning smile on the witcher's face as he did so. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the missing scene here is that regis left to get those bandages, just to have an in. 
> 
> as always, talk to me about your thoughts on the chapter!


	7. Convening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regis points Geralt in the direction of someone more knowledgable about bruxae behavior: Dettlaff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Silenceisaweapon for betaing and making the kick ass gifs for this fic I use on tumblr!
> 
> And thank you to Lynge, DanytheET, and BawdyBean for the cheerleading and inspiration!! Yall give me the warm fuzzies🥰

Dettlaff is idling at the counter of the shop when Regis and Geralt come in. He had been working on the proportions for a fae carving someone had commissioned from him; it was difficult to get the wings just right in relation to the slender body. Of course, that would have to wait now that Regis was home.

He crossed the shop to his mate to embrace him in greeting, always eager to hold him and fuss over him when he came home. Even more so now, seeing the white-haired witcher with him means that Regis, hopefully, got to speak with him and all went well. 

His suspicions were affirmed when he wrapped his partner in his arms, smelling the musk-and-frost that mingled in with Regis' own clean spring water scent. A bolt of possessiveness coursed through him, completely unbidden as he found himself wanting to rub his face over his mate, marking him as  _ his _ again. But, there was also joy in his scent, sharp and bright, and the younger vampire quelled himself. 

When they parted he nodded to Geralt, who smiled back at him sheepishly. 

"Dettlaff, I was telling Geralt about your abilities and fondness for the 'lesser' of our kind. It seems he has been assigned a multitude of contracts by the duqessa, and we think this is a large warren. You know more than the both of us combined, would you be willing to take a look?" Regis' eyes were sparkling with intrigue and excitement, and Dettlaff had to admit his interest was piqued. He looked to Geralt again, who had an unreadable expression as he watched the two of them. 

"It is to my understanding that witchers work alone. You would have my help?" He asked with a cautious tone. 

Geralt nodded. "Sure, if  _ Regis _ says you know your stuff, then you really know your stuff. Besides, even a lone wolf needs help sometimes." His smile was relaxed and calm, and Regis nodded alongside him. 

Dettlaff internally preened, it was high praise for Regis to direct Geralt to him, and higher still for Geralt to acknowledge his experience. He did not consider himself to be the most well-versed individual, there were many subjects he had never taken an interest in, even given centuries to do so. 

When it came to other vampires, he just had a natural inclination toward them. The shepherding ability he had inherited from his mother was part of it, he could tap into their minds, tethering them to him by the invisible thread of his will. On a more individual level, he also found them more pleasant. Ekimmara, for example, were extremely inquisitive and bright, and usually quick to trust. Bruxae and alps, though not true lesser vampires, were more communal in nature than higher vampires but blessedly straight-forward, a welcome change when others of his kind made him dizzy speaking in riddles and half-truths. 

"I will be happy to help, then, in any way I can." He responded to the witcher, who seemed pleased. Regis grabbed hold of his hand and squeezed, and he saw the big, bright smile on his face.

\--

If there were ever an inopportune time for the tourney to be in full swing, it would of course be now. Regis was stocking his pack with some of the medicinal herbs he had collected for the other day, as well as poultices, sutures, and the like. 

When word had been sent to him that Anje would need him full time on the grounds for the long weekend's festivities (and inevitable injuries) he had debated not going. It was unlike him, he knew, to try and avoid his duties, but caring for overconfident knights was the last thing on his mind.

He would much rather be exploring the new relationship he was forming with Geralt. Just thinking about their shared confession, the honesty of his kiss, made the room spin a bit. He had years of waiting and wanting to make up for and wanted to get started right away. Rationally, though, the work that he did on the tourney grounds helped pay for keeping the Rocking Horse open and gave them a roof over their heads. He was pouting to himself about the unfairness of it all when he felt a soothing presence.

Dettlaff had come into the kitchen to help him organize his supplies, obviously smelling their combined scent on his skin and clothing while asking after what happened. He was tickled to hear that Geralt asked after his well-being before accepting Regis' confession, and seemed more comfortable as they headed up to his workroom. 

Geralt was spreading out the materials and information given to him by the treasury for Dettlaff to examine. He had also produced his field journal, with thick leather binding and well-organized sections for sketches, bestiary corrections, and notes on his contracts. Regis' internal researcher swooned at the care he took of his records.

Dettlaff sat opposite Geralt while he was given a summary, keen eyes roving over the many depictions of the vampires on contract flyers. Geralt watched him with interest as long, pointed nails traced across the names of townships where the contracts were originally issued.

"Strange that there aren't any sightings to the southeast of the Sansretour. Or east at all." 

"I noticed that as well. Too bad that old wives' tale of vampires being unable to cross moving bodies of water because otherwise, I have no idea why else the spread would look like that."

Dettlaff hummed, considering. He had some initial gut theories that he did not want to divulge yet. He did not think of it as keeping a secret, as they appeared only half-formed in his mind. These vampires may have been drawn here by the Elder One, though he did not often interact with even higher vampires. It could also be that they were  _ pushed _ to this location, displaced from post-war reconstruction efforts and the lack of easy prey. Still, to see so many in one area…

"I find it confusing that they refer to these in the contracts as  _ lesser  _ vampires. I do not see one fleder or lower in the bunch." Dettlaff commented without thinking. 

Geralt nodded. "Yeah, I think some people call them lesser vampires because they don't realize just how many bruxae and katakans live among them. They rarely notice them when they are in human disguise." 

"Quite. And some are not honest about their origins. As a witcher, you must be quite frustrated at the number of texts on higher vampires that are actually accounts on katakans." Dettlaff's blue eyes sparkled as he spoke, his interest in the topic as captivating as the information itself. 

Geralt brows raised a little at that. He had assumed, of course, that most literature on higher vampires was flawed. Who would be brave enough to document it, and lucky enough to live and see it published? He was amused to think that Dandelion might be one of the few authors to actually have truly interviewed a higher vampire, not that Geralt would ever tell him. The man's head was already much too big. 

"Met one like that once," he began conversationally, "Rejk. Acted as a coroner in Novigrad. Turns out he was killing people and sending a religious message. When I found him out, he tried to claim to be a higher vampire. I was worried for a moment before he shifted into his bat form. It looked nothing like what I had seen Regis transform into, but it was a hell of a lot like an elder katakan." 

He couldn't help but grin as Dettlaff leaned in, looking at him with rapt attention. 

"Why would he care for the conventions of human religion? You must tell me more." 

"Well, I doubt he was truly religious. He tried to pin his work on a reverend, you see…"

\--

Regis listened to his partners swap stories and tidbits of information. To an observer, they would sound casual, gruff in their discussion as if it was only work for them. But having been familiarized to their mannerisms, he could tell each was riveted by the knowledge displayed from the other. 

_ Oh,  _ he thought,  _ I  _ **_do_ ** _ have a type.  _

Still, he could hardly be embarrassed by it. Dettlaff seemed engrossed by the story of the--extremely tasteless--butchering katakan coroner, animated in his reactions as Regis had ever seen him. Geralt was delighted by this, going into detail about his sleuthing that bordered on braggadocious. 

Though he wouldn't tell them, he found the scene endearing. To watch the two people he cared for getting along was...well, more than he could have ever asked for. They represented two different times in his life, bookending the horrible experience of being burned to nothing, but now the past and present were blending. He had never even considered the idea of them coming together, getting along. 

It brought him a feeling of wholeness, and he smiled. 

\--

Time passed as quickly as Geralt could recall in recent memory. Dettlaff's experiences with other vampires provided such a wealth of information. He was jotting notes, though not as many as he had wanted to--he was captivated by the way the dark-haired vampire told stories. He wasn't dramatic, didn't make silly jokes or meander through parts that may have been fogged by time. His voice was deep, steady, and he set the scene for encounters like one might capture them in a painting. Adding small details about the pattern of a bite mark, or the location of a hidden katakan treasure that others wouldn't bother to highlight. It was easy to be drawn in. 

Regis approached the table with his usual satchel, as well as a case full of medical supplies. The case matched the tent he worked in, white with red crosses on each side, and was in pristine condition, unlike the well-worn bag. 

"Well, darlings, I am off to the grand tourney. It should only span the weekend that I am obligated to stay, so I will return Monday mid-day or so." His voice was cheerful, but he looked put-out by leaving the two of them there. 

"Wait, let me walk you over. There is an empty estate just north of the grounds that was foreclosed on. One of the contracts is for a lone bruxa seen in that area, I wanna see if I can find any clues to our current infestation." Geralt rose, leaving the folio and documents on the table, but grabbing his notebook and baldrics. 

Regis felt giddy, then ridiculous. He was no school girl being escorted home by her crush, and yet the simple gesture was touching. To have even a few more moments with Geralt made the prospect of being away from him more bearable, though he suspected it wouldn't be for long. It helped that Geralt had to work as well, as did Dettlaff. His lovers wouldn't have time to miss him very much. 

All three of them descended the stairs, the younger vampire keen on walking the two of them out. Geralt exited the shop first, casting a lingering glance at the wooden figure forgotten on the counter. The faerie was exquisitely detailed--he would have to come back and study it closer, just in appreciation of the craftsmanship. 

Dettlaff hovered by the door, looking hesitantly at Regis, then at Geralt. The witcher assumed that because Regis would be gone for a few days, Dettlaff would want to embrace him. 

Well, this was a moment he wasn't expecting to have so soon. He cleared his throat and turned his back, trying to give them some privacy. 

He could still hear it, though he wasn't trying to. The rustle of clothes as Dettlaff wrapped his arms around Regis, the slick but not unpleasant noise of their lips working over each other. And then, the small whine that Dettlaff made in the back of his throat, surprised and wanting as Regis did  _ something.  _ Geralt had an itch to turn around, watch his new partner kiss the handsome man he loved. If he had been worried about jealousy before, it would have dissipated as his curiosity took over. 

And just like that, before Geralt could explore his interest, Regis was next to him, cautiously threading an arm through his. Those dark eyes asked  _ is this okay? _ He smiled, tightening his arm so Regis is held firmly in the crook of his elbow. 

"We off?" He asked, casual. This all felt easy, practiced even though it was brand new. The trust already built between them made the fond gestures natural. In the past, Geralt had flinched away from even simple touches in public. They felt claiming, a simple hand on his arm the equivalent of a leash to the right person. But Regis had never sought to claim, and he felt free with the action, rather than restricted. Regis almost beamed, before remembering they were no longer in the privacy of his home. He settled for a tight-lipped smile, patting his forearm. 

"That we are, dear."

Geralt gave a wave to Dettlaff, still standing in the doorway.

"I'll report back later!" He called as they walked off. Dettlaff nodded before closing the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This fic is not dead. Life is unrelenting but I do have the next chapter in the drafts and an outline for the next few. Please let me know what you think! Is the pacing/characterization what you were hoping for? I am always looking for feedback!


	8. The Butler and the Bruxa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt begins his investigation into the vampire infestation plaguing Beauclair, starting with an interview of one shaken witness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to BawdyBean, my new beta for this story! If you read this and go "wow, so much more comprehensible than sohy's usual stuff" you'll LOVE her works ;)

The walk up to the tourney grounds was pleasant. For humans, it might have been long in the unfavorable heat of the summer sun, but for the two of them it was a simple stroll.

While Regis was happy to just enjoy the scenery, his mind was addled with questions. He did interrogate Geralt about the vampire mutagens that he was exposed to in the Trials but, unfortunately, that line of questioning yielded few results. Geralt knew little about the purpose of each ingredient and hadn't been privy to  _ any _ of the additional mutations they gave him. 

All Geralt could relay was that he healed more quickly than his brothers, he was faster and stronger than even Eskel, but his magic was somewhat diminished. He could still easily use the signs witchers needed in battle, but Yennefer and Triss had confirmed they felt less of a 'hum' in his skin than they did with the other witchers. This information surprised Regis, as he could feel the undercurrent of magic whenever they touched skin-to-skin. If  _ that _ was weakened magic, then Geralt's brothers must buzz like bees. 

Regis told Geralt about the suspicions he and Dettlaff had; that Geralt might be similar enough to a vampire for others to sense--if they dared to get close enough, that is. Geralt’s step faltered for a moment, appearing surprised by the theory. 

"Is that why Dettlaff was asking me about the mutagens as well? Trying to get a read on me?" Geralt’s question was good-natured, but Regis felt a tinge of embarrassment. 

"Ah, yes. Dettlaff is quite...direct. To say the least." 

The witcher snorted. " _ That's _ the truth. Damn near gave me a heart attack asking me about kissing you. I was sure I was about to end up as lunch."

Regis was ready to apologize on his mate's behalf. He knew Dettlaff meant no harm, but that didn't mean he couldn't sometimes be abrasive to others. But then, Geralt continued.

"I like him. A lot actually. The honesty is refreshing. I'll never have to guess what he's thinking, at least."

If they were going to work together on these contracts and share Regis as a partner, they would need to get along. He breathed a sigh of relief, thank goodness for small favors.

"And," Geralt began, "he looks at you like you hung the moon. It's nice to know that you've been so taken care of, even when I couldn't be the one to do it." He squeezed the arm he had interlocked with Regis' in affection. 

\--

The pair came upon the grounds from the back entrance, by the stables. Regis insisted on escorting Geralt to go claim Roach, and sat on the wall of the stable while he gave her a thorough brush and rub down. 

“When you pick a new Roach, doesn’t it take a long time to find one with a similar temperament to its predecessor?” Regis asked, picking some stray hay from the rolled cuff of his trousers.

Smoothing a hand down Roach’s broad neck as he straightened her tack, Geralt couldn’t help but smile fondly at her.

“Nah. Long as it’s a bay, a mare, and reliable that’s good enough.”

Regis blinked at that. “Well then, it’s lucky to find one as sweet as she is. She hasn’t even startled away from me.” He pointed behind him, where the horse in the adjacent stall had crowded toward the far wall. It had nickered when Regis approached the stall, stamping a bit, but a spare oatcake had convinced the animal to calm enough to allow their presence. Meanwhile, Roach had only snorted and shook her head in excitement. 

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed, “there have been stronger horses but there have been few braver. Turned down a purebred Nilfgaardian Warhorse for her, few years back. I’d had her for barely two years at that point--bought her off a farm in Kaedwen--and it had been nothing but hard riding from one place to the next. More often than not, it’d be while running from something, including the Hunt. After that, she’s more a warhorse than any purebred.” He gave her an appreciative pat, and she leaned into it. 

The stable was silent for a moment, and when Geralt turned to Regis, he saw the vampire with a fond smile on his face. Black eyes soft and half-lidded met his gaze. 

The right side of his mouth curled up in an amused smile and Geralt huffed out a laugh. “What’s the look for?” 

“You haven’t the faintest idea how wonderful you are, do you?” 

Geralt couldn’t help the broad smile that spread across his face at the praise. He walked around the front of Roach, brushing his knuckles along the velvet of her nose as he did, until he was in front of where Regis was sitting on the half-wall. After a moment of hesitation, he leaned forward, arms resting on the vampire’s lap. Geralt tilted his head up to keep eye contact.

“Oh? You think I’m  _ wonderful,  _ do you?” He drawled, playful. 

Regis leaned down, placing a hand on his cheek and guiding their faces close together. Geralt could feel Regis’ breath as he said, “I do, it’s the least I think of you,” before he pressed their lips together. Geralt kissed him back immediately, enjoying the thrill in his chest that he got from the  _ newness  _ of it all still. He wondered as Regis licked into his mouth if Dettlaff still felt this way as he kissed Regis.

He thought back to only a few hours ago when Regis and Dettlaff shared their parting kiss. Geralt pressed closer, wrapping his arms around Regis’ slender waist, imagining their farewell kiss, how even without seeing it he could feel their passion. Regis in turn brought his other hand to the back of Geralt’s neck, thumb stroking the nape and the short hairs there; Geralt practically purred at the contact. 

The beginnings of arousal bloomed in the air around them, Regis smelling warm and alluring as Geralt pressed his chest into him. He could, under that heady aroma, smell something dark and saline, like a churning ocean. The scent natural to Dettlaff, it must be. An electric thrill sparked in his gut, the converging of the two of them on their shared lover spurring his desire on rather than stifling it. Regis must have been able to sense his growing interest, or otherwise be unable to hold himself back, because he wrapped his legs around Geralt’s middle, and he could feel the vampire’s erection swelling against his chest. 

"Regis," Geralt murmured against his lips, "d'you wanna-"

They both froze as they heard the latch to the stable doors rattle, then a muffled curse as it got jammed. They stepped apart, Regis rushing to rearrange his clothes. A moment later, the doors shook and opened with a grunt from someone. 

"Oi, Doc! Didn't expect to see you here!" A massive, chipper stablehand greeted, completely oblivious to what he interrupted. 

"Marek," Regis greeted with a stiff nod, "good to see you." 

Geralt rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, mildly embarrassed. It has been a few years since he was cheeky enough with anyone to get carried away in a public place. His mind drifted briefly to Yen, as it did even still. Them, hiding behind the tapestry at Kaer Trolde from guards, keeping quiet even as she nipped at his neck. 

It felt like a lifetime ago, now. 

He cleared his throat, "Suppose I should get to checking on that contract." 

Regis nodded but looked a bit disappointed. 

"And I should relieve Anje of her duties. I'm sure she's had more than her fill of Guillaume's attempt at verse." Geralt couldn't help but smile at that, and Regis returned it. Marek had his back to them, forking hay into an empty stable in preparation for visiting knights. Regis took the chance to jump off the wall where he was seated, closing the distance between them and giving one last quick kiss to Geralt. 

"Do be safe, darling. I expect a full report when you get back." He tried to pull away, but Geralt wrapped an arm around him and kissed him again. He could feel the witcher's smile. 

"Of course,  _ Doc, _ wouldn't dream of making you worry."

\--

Geralt pulled his field ledger from the saddlebag as he rode Roach at a trot toward his destination. He flipped to the page on this contract and reviewed the notes he had taken with Dettlaff:

_ A fortnight ago, a female vampire was seen stalking the premises of Corvo Bianco, property of the Treasury. Reports describe a gnarled face, emaciated form, and red hair. A merchant was found dead, drained on the road by the property, some kind of fang marks on neck (body was cremated, no examination possible).  _

_ If further information needed, speak to Barnabas-Basil Foulty, caretaker. Located down the road from  the property while the investigation is being conducted.  _

It was unfortunate that Geralt didn't have a body to examine, but this sounded like a clear case of a lone bruxa. Most likely she had just reached maturity and was on her own for the first time. While he knew better than to assume an easy fight, a young bruxa was generally not as powerful as an older one, and able to be dealt with more easily. Still, he took precaution: moondust bombs, black blood, and vampire oil at the ready. 

Tucking the journal into the breast pocket on the inside of his wolf armor, he encouraged Roach to trot along faster. In spite of the dangers of being a witcher, Geralt enjoyed the research aspect--learning the intricacies of a contract and applying his knowledge to a tangible problem was engaging. 

\--

The shack down the road was just that, a shack. It looked to have been hastily raised, and from the outside appeared to barely have two rooms. Geralt knocked gently at the door, afraid he might collapse the rickety structure. There was the quiet shuffling on the other side, and the door opened just a crack to reveal part of a face, eye obscured by a stylish pair of sunglasses. 

"Hello. I'm Geralt of Rivia, the ducal treasury sent me. Are you Barnabas-Basil Foulty?" He tried to keep his voice calm so as not to scare the man peeking behind the door. 

The caretaker gave a soft  _ oh,  _ and opened the door fully. He stood straight and offered his hand in greeting. Geralt gripped him by the forearm in return. This seemed to startle Barnabas-Basil, though he did not pull back. 

"My apologies, master witcher. I had begun to give up hope of them sending someone to attend to this-" he waved his hand vaguely, "delicate matter." 

The majordomo's voice was the measured, careful cadence of someone who had worked in the profession a long time--the not-quite-posh Toussaintois of a man living and working on the edge of nobility. And he did quite look the part of a high-end butler; he was dressed as though in uniform, the ruff he wore comically out of place in his small home. His shaved head and minor stubble made it easy for Geralt to read the lines of stress on his face. It was a familiar look, many of the contract issuers he'd worked with had the same drawn exhaustion to them. It was for good reason, average folk had no hope of defending themselves against a bruxa. 

"Hopefully I will be able to take care of the issue. May I ask you about what you saw?" 

Barnabas-Basil gave a slight nod. "Of course, I can put the kettle on. Please forgive me for the...state of my lodgings. My paperwork is still being processed by the treasury to have me service a different estate, so this is home, for the moment." 

Geralt waved the comment away. "I've seen worse. It sounded in the report like you had quite the ordeal."

"Yes, indeed I did." Barnabas-Basil held open the door of the shack and nodded for Geralt to enter, then hurried to pull a small wooden chair out for him to sit. 

The chair was so low to the ground it felt like a child's seat, leaving Geralt’s knees knocking against the rough pine table the majordomo was using to dine at. The corner of the shack had an opening in the roof for smoke to escape from a tiny fire, only as wide around as the base of the kettle that he hung above it. 

"Would you like black tea or oolong? Both are strong yet still smooth." The man's hands were folded behind his back as if he was serving a noble. 

"Oolong, please. Witchers don't need that much caffeine." Barnabas-Basil nodded once and bent to pull some teacups out of a low cabinet. 

Once the tea was done it was set on the table. Only one of the cups had a saucer to go with it, and it was laid in front of Geralt. The porcelain of the cup itself was chipped along one edge, so he drank left handed to avoid it. Barnabas shuffled nervously in his seat, watching Geralt's face to see if he was pleased. 

"It's fine," he assured, "I have had far worse hospitality. Now, would you tell me what happened at the estate?" 

\--

_ The Estate of Corvo Bianco, Two Weeks Earlier _

Barnabas was exhausted, it was well past dusk and he was still at the estate, taking stock of exterior damages by lamp light. His sunglasses were tucked into a soft leather case in his inner breast pocket, and he had on the clear frames he used for reading as he jotted down the details of each imperfection. He was wrapping up his notes on the eastern side of the wall when he heard it--a scream that sounded like it was ripped out of someone. He couldn't even tell if it was a man or woman who had screamed, the noise was so shrill. 

Later, Barnabas would blame the late hour for his lack of better judgment. He was alone on the grounds, the servant's quarters so run-down that no one could stay there. He had been sleeping in the master bedroom of the estate, the only place where the roof didn't leak. 

So, despite the few workers who were repairing the buildings had left hours ago, Barnabas thought one of them must have met with trouble. Raising his lantern, Barnabas made his way toward the scream, a stretch of quiet road right outside the eastern side of the estate, passing through the solarium for an additional bit of cover. 

With the road below him as he looked out from the top of the hill, Barnabas could only just barely make out a mass in the middle of it, moving slightly. Two people, one cradling the other. Oh. Perhaps someone had just tripped and was startled? The majordomo felt more confident, and descended the hill towards them. 

"Hello there!" He called, voice ringing through the silence, "I heard a noise, do either of you need any--" 

The offer died in his throat as one of the figures turned around. She--if the thing could even  _ be _ female--was nude, skeletal almost. Her skin was deathly pale, grey in the darkness. But Barnabas would only be able to recall that after the fact. At that moment, his eyes couldn’t tear away from what he saw, it was...savage. Bile rose in his throat at the ichor clinging to her, blood nearly black in the low light as it covered her chin, her chest. Despite her humanoid form, her face was anything but. It was caught in a permanent snarl, and looked raw and damaged. The man (perhaps it was a man?) on the ground was clearly dead--his throat torn open and what seemed to be an endless pool of blood mixed with the dirt, staining it. 

The creature eyed him warily from where she was knelt, while he stood frozen. Barnabas was sure his heart was going to give out, it was beating so fast in his chest that it hurt. He wanted to run, every nerve in his body was demanding it, but he could not will his legs to move. If he had managed to, they might have just given out under him. The creature rose and opened her mouth as if to scream, but all that came out was a harsh croak that set his teeth on edge.

She became enraged then, hissing and raising her bloodied claws to her face before pointing them outward and lunging at him, closing the meters of distance in an instant.

In a serendipitous moment that he could only attribute to the Gods themselves, Barnabas threw his lantern at her. The thin panes of glass surrounding the oil and flame crashed against her face, coating her in a thin layer of blue fire. Her hair caught as well, and the stench of it filled his nose. The monster shrieked in that same rattling pitch, covering her face and shrinking away from him. 

It was only then that the shaken majordomo found his own voice, and began to scream.

“Help! Help!" His voice was so loud it terrified him, "Oh Gods, someone please help me!” Barnabas tasted blood in his mouth from the force of his cries, but now that they had started they could not stop.

In the distance, a trumpet sounded. A knight-errant responding to his call. The creature looked up, face drooping and almost melted in some places from the flames. Her eyes darted from the sound to Barnabas, then back again. He was shoved roughly to the ground as she pushed past him, in the direction of the estate. 

Barnabas spun around on his hands and knees, terrified to have his back to her, and could just barely see the main building. The wounded beast ripped the heavy oak doors from the cellar, and entered. Hooves sounded behind him, drawing closer. His whole body was quaking, he realized, but was unable to tear his eyes away from Corvo Bianco. 

When a hand rested on his shoulder, it was too much for him to bear. Barnabas succumbed to his nerves, and fainted. 

\--

In spite of his best efforts, Barnabas-Basil was shaking so hard his teacup clinked against the table erratically by the time he finished telling his tale. Geralt reached across the gap between them and stilled the pale hand holding onto the delicate handle, giving it a light squeeze before coming to his senses and pulling back. Most weren’t settled by the touch of a witcher, much the opposite, but the majordomo’s shoulders slumped, some tension eased out of them. Barnabas-Basil cleared his throat and pushed up his dark glasses by the bridge, no doubt to hide his eyes.

“Forgive me, master witcher. It has...it is still so real for me.” 

“Hey,” Geralt began in a soft voice, “no need to apologize. Most aren’t even able to tell me what happened. And it was quick thinking to throw the lantern, most likely you saved yourself there.”

Barnabas barked a single laugh, humorless. “Forgive me, but I wasn’t thinking in the slightest. I was scared witless.” 

Nodding, Geralt replied, “I’m not doubting that. But you  _ acted,  _ you didn’t let yourself go down easily. Give yourself some credit, braver men have fallen to lesser threats.”

A bit of pink colored the man's cheeks for the first time since he had begun to share his story, and he shifted in his rickety chair. “It is kind of you to say that, thank you.” 

Geralt stood, having finished his tea and anxious to get to the estate. Barnabas’ story had raised more questions than answers, but he believed the man to be telling the truth. 

“I don’t do much out of kindness, it’s just the truth. I‘m going to Corvo Bianco now, see if I can’t clear out this bruxa for you.” 

The majordomo perked up, and dug through his pocket until he produced an ornate, worn-looking key. 

“Here, should you need it, this is the master key. Be careful, please. I know you lot deal with these beasts in your line of work, but she was fearsome, more fearsome than I had ever imagined them being.” His voice was drifting away by the end, the moment of his attack washing back over him. Geralt took the key from his hand and shook it, bringing the man back to the present moment. 

“You’re right, we do deal with these monsters often, it just means we know how real the dangers are. I will let you know if it is safe to move back in. Thank you Barnabas for your time, and for the tea.”

Geralt exited the shack and collected Roach from the patch of grass she was grazing in, mind working over and over the account of this unusual bruxa.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you couldn't tell, BB is my FAVORITE character. I love him so much. Please lmk what you think in the comments! Something was...off about that bruxa, don't you think? 🤔


	9. An Injured Cub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt investigates Corvo Bianco, searching for the bruxa described to him by Barnabas-Basil. What he finds yields more questions than answers. THIS IS A TWO CHAPTER UPDATE!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to BawdyBean for being my beta and doing the impossible by making me sound coherent.
> 
> Chapters 9 and 10 are a two chapter update, as an apology for being away so long.

The foreclosed villa was a short ride from the shack, and not too far from the tourney grounds. If Geralt listened closely he could hear the sounds of the crowded fairgrounds being carried by the valley. It made him wary, a bruxa so close to the festivities had her pick of victims to choose from. He was especially concerned for the children there, always underfoot and running from one tent to the next and easy prey.

Geralt shook his head, pulling up on the reins to slow Roach to a stop at the archway over the entrance to the estate fields. The property was unusually run down for Toussaint; there were only a few sparse vines, twisting with diseased grapes clinging to thin stalks. The stone courtyard was cracked with tufted weeds peaking out. Dismounting, Geralt pulled a carrot from the saddlebag to give to Roach as he fiddled with her mane, keeping his ears open to the ambient sounds of the area. It was very quiet, some bugs buzzed in the distance, but there was a noticeable lack of birdsong.

He turned over the details of the case again in his mind. Geralt had been so  _ sure _ that this was a simple case of a juvenile bruxa, one just old enough to be away from her warren, but now he didn’t know what to make of it. Barnabas’ description of her was disconcerting, to say the least. The way Barnabas had described her though— as injured, with scarring on her face— should be impossible for a vampire. They healed instantly, preventing scars from appearing, unless they were very old and their regeneration had slowed. 

But there were more pieces that didn’t add up. The pool of blood on the ground was unusual for this species as well, as they typically were able to drain victims dry with no effort. If there was blood pooling even  _ before _ the majordomo’s interruption, it meant she may not have been feeding properly. And then there was the question of her croaking when she should have screamed, like her vocal cords had been damaged. Even without the stunning ability, she should have been able to kill the man in an instant, but she hesitated. Why?

What could harm a bruxa to this extent, leaving it timid, compared to its normal nature? Perhaps, in her weakened state, Geralt might be able to ask her, tempt the bruxa into talking, rather than going right for his neck. If Geralt was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what could be powerful enough to injure an immortal being. 

Geralt walked up the path to the stone courtyard, silver blade already coated in vampire oil with a Black Blood potion on his hip, ready to take the second he could track the bruxa. 

In general Geralt held off on using potions, the pain of the toxicity often outweighed the effects, distracting him more than a wound might in battle. Black Blood made him the most ill of all of them. Often Geralt had to use his meditation skills to focus through the roiling in his stomach, and the searing heat in his veins. So he always saved it for the last possible moment. 

Geralt came upon the oak doors to the cellar, tossed to the side as if they were inconvenient. From the looks of the twisted hinges it had once been well bolted into place. The wood was gouged deep with bloody claw marks where the bruxa had torn them open, and as he looked around the area he wondered if she would even still be at the villa. 

It had been weeks since the report. She could be anywhere by now. However, Geralt did recall a passage in one of the dusty tomes Vesemir had forced him to slog through during his training on vampires mentioning something about “going to ground.” It was the process of locking themselves away from the world while they healed or regenerated from grievous injury. Regis had inadvertently been forced into this state after his drunken mistakes landed him in trouble with a group of peasants, and was able to regenerate from being chopped to pieces. 

Provided Geralt was lucky enough to find her in such a state, well, he could just slay her then. But he was torn, the source of her unusual injuries nagged at him in the back of his mind, while his instinct told him that he should dispatch threats as soon as possible. He drew silver and held it in front of him as he descended the stairs, knowing that the outcome couldn’t be decided unless he  _ found _ the bruxa in question. 

The cellar had clearly gone a long time without being disturbed. The odd barrel of wine, long turned to vinegar from the smell of it, dotted the otherwise empty shelving. Layers of dust were thick on every surface, but Geralt noticed an oddly clean spot on the right-hand wall, as if something had brushed against it. He paused and crouched low to study it further;  _ there,  _ a single strand of auburn hair, the end singed from Barnabas’ quick thinking with the lantern. He noticed something else too, and lit an old candle with igni to get a better look. The hair bulb the root was encased in was black, diseased looking. A deep frown tugged at Geralt’s face, what was wrong with this bruxa? 

The faintest sound of shuffling alerted Geralt, his head snapping up with force. The echo of the tunnel carried it to him, though most would have been unable to hear it. Hand on the vial of Black Blood on his belt, Geralt weighed his options. He could, quite literally, come out swinging, but he was unlikely to get his answers from a corpse. However, if he approached without this precaution and she attacked he wouldn’t have enough time to parry  _ and _ down the repulsive potion. His face scrunched into a pained look. Geralt took his hand away from the potion and crept toward the entrance of the cellar, keeping his back along the wall. 

Standing at the top of the stone stairs was the bruxa Geralt had been tracking. She was a dark spot, backlit by the bright Toussaint sun in a way that obscured some of her features, but he could tell it was her. She was leaning against the frame of the entrance, and the breeze carried a scent to him that was disturbingly familiar; the sickly-sweet smell of white gull, and the bitter tinge of nostrix and rebis. What in Melitele’s name? Slowly, he reached back down to his potion belt, and thumbed the cap of his Black Blood— still firmly sealed. 

The bruxa froze.  _ Shit. _ Had she heard the near-imperceptible sound of his armor creaking as he checked the vial? She took a backward step, hesitant. 

“Stop!” Geralt made the split-second decision to make himself known, cringing at the volume of his voice in the silence. “I am not here to hurt you, I know you’re injured. Who did this to you?” 

Geralt wondered how much she had heard, as she was already hissing before he could get far. She stumbled backward, and he slowly followed her out of the cellar and into the open air of the courtyard. If it did come to a fight, he would rather not be trapped in close quarters. 

Maintaining his defensive position, Geralt advanced slowly up the stairs, the sun shining a spotlight on the creature in front of him. It was worse than Barnabas had described; she looked unlike any bruxa Geralt had seen before. She had a ragged, dark green cloak draped over her shoulders, the hood obscuring her eyes but not the damage done to the rest of her face.

Baring her teeth, she revealed that several of them were missing or broken along the left side. The skin on that same side was drooping, just as the majordomo had reported. That meant that it hadn’t healed at all in the fortnight since she had last been seen. The wounds on her face looked raw, even gangrenous, and Geralt couldn’t help but be overcome with sympathy for the monster. She couldn’t even feed properly like that, and must have been in incredible pain. Most likely, the more cynical part of himself mused, she wouldn’t be able to emit the immobilizing scream that bruxa were known for, making her easy to take down if necessary. 

Against his better judgement, his shoulders relaxed, lowering his sword from where it had been ready to parry in front of him to down by his side. The bruxa, who had been backing away from him slowly, paused. 

“Please,” He said again, holding a hand out to her, “I’m not here to hurt you. I want to know what happened to you that hurt you so bad. I have things, potions, that might be able to help you.” Geralt didn’t know if that was true, had never given a potion to a monster before, but he had an itch within him to know what had happened to disfigure such a powerful being so totally. It unsettled him, the uncanny valley of an injured immortal, and if this was part of a bigger issue...He squashed that thought. Not now. 

The bruxa raised her clawed hands, seeming permanently extended, to her hood and lowered it. Her red hair was singed, again just as Barnabas had said, and it made her look even more wretched than she already did— like an effigy only partially sacrificed. Geralt suppressed a wince, “Thank you, can you speak?” 

“Hurts,” she croaked out, voice thin and rasping. Geralt nodded, he had no doubts that it did. 

“I understand, I’ll keep it brief. What injured you?”

Brows tensing, the bruxa looked down, no doubt trying to summarize a terrible event into too few words. “Humans ambushed us, disoriented us with bombs and fire-” She was interrupted by a painful, sticky cough, “-their weapons were poisoned. No one touched by them can heal.”

This time, Geralt did not stop the incredulous look on his face. “Can’t heal? Is there a cure?” The bruxa just shook her head, she didn’t know. Geralt’s mind was racing, he didn’t know of any human poison that would be even close to toxic enough to debilitate a vampire. Then, he remembered the scent of rebis and nostrix, the white gull. 

“Could you tell me if this is familiar?” Geralt finally pulled his Black Blood from his belt, turning the vial to watch the dark, viscous sludge ooze down the glass. He uncorked the vial. 

Her reaction was immediate— the bruxa flung herself back with startling force. She landed on unsteady feet a few meters back, attempting to hiss but only succeeding in choking herself. The bruxa sputtered and gasped, a thing Geralt had only seen one do in its death throes. He quickly corked the potion again, hoping that he could dose her with Swallow before she was overcome by the stress of her injuries. His movements were clumsy; seeing a powerful being struggle from a force outside of his own was more jarring than he would like to admit. And humans did this? He couldn’t begin to wrap his mind around it. 

“Hold on, I’ll help you, just don’t-” Geralt didn’t get to finish, because the world had gone sideways. Or more accurately, he was being knocked sideways with blinding force, barely catching himself before his head hit stone. It was only then that he noticed the ringing in his ears and felt the nausea, his vision swimming. Geralt was pushing himself upright as quickly as he could, reaching for silver when a second bruxa came into view, rushing toward him. 

It was only through muscle memory that he was able to draw his blade in front of him in time to block the bruxa’s claws, but there was little strength behind his defense, not with him still on the ground. It was only enough to keep her from shredding him, and she growled in frustration as she was denied her kill. This new bruxa lept back, and Geralt took that moment to roll to his feet, the world pitching as he shook off the disorienting effects of her scream. 

Unlike the bruxa he had been speaking to, this one was brunette, perfectly healthy, and most importantly, completely lethal. He cast an active quen, the golden light flickering over his body as he walked clockwise around the bruxa, making sure to put space between himself and the injured one as well. 

The bruxa lunged in to attack again. Not caring for his blade or his shield, she swiped in front of him and was met with the harsh  _ clang _ of her nails on silver, hissing before jumping into the air. Geralt spun around, he didn’t want to give his back to her, but it was too late, and she landed on him with immense force. The quen absorbed most of the blow, but the resounding explosion of the shield breaking did little to shake her as Geralt stumbled. 

She landed a series of kicks, very unusual for a bruxa to do, that Geralt struggled to defend against— he couldn’t use his blade without being vulnerable to her claws. She was so quick that it was near impossible to keep up with her, his arm and shoulder were becoming sore from the strength of her blows in moments. There was no opening, no rhythmic pause in her attacks for Geralt to land a blow against her.

Geralt cast aard, hoping that the sweeping force would push her back and give him a moment to regroup, but she only seemed to become more enraged as it forced her to take a few steps back. A man would have been sent clear across the property with the strength Geralt had put into the sign, but this bruxa was able to regain her lost ground in no time, shrieking again before he could shield himself with another quen. 

At close range, the blast of sound was completely debilitating. Geralt reflexively doubled over, hands over his ears even as he felt blood trickling from them. The pain was sickening, made worse by the way the world seemed to spin around him, his knees nearly buckling as his equilibrium was disrupted. 

Deafened and nearly blind, Geralt had no defense against the bruxa as she sped toward him, a swift and brutal punch to his center launching him into the air. He could feel something in his abdomen crack, air rushing out of his lungs. The bruxa jumped into the air, higher than she had sent Geralt, and he could  _ feel _ the air moving around her more than he could hear her diving down toward him with the force of her weight. 

_ Melitele, is this it? _

In a last-ditch effort to preserve his body and, hopefully, his life, Geralt curled tightly into a ball and braced for impact. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am alive, I promise. There has been a *checks notes* 4 and a half month gap in this fic due to the nightmare world we live in. I do plan on continuing this story for the foreseeable future and have several wips that are kicking around. Comments have been a huge motivator for me, so if you have theories, suggestions, or anything really leave it below. Don't forget, chapters 9 and 10 are uploaded together, so I'm not leaving you hanging.


	10. Interlopers, Welcome and Unwelcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dettlaff trusts his gut. The pieces begin to connect. TWO CHAPTER UPDATE!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my fantastic beta, BawdyBean!
> 
> Chapters 9 and 10 were uploaded together. Make sure you have read 9 first!

Dettlaff had a bad feeling. It was quiet at first, just echoes of potential dangers plucking the strings of beings around him. But now the echoes had grown, surging into a dull roar in his mind, the kind that made focus difficult. 

  
  


It didn’t necessarily mean anything, Dettlaff had bad feelings about a great many things. It was in part his own unease and in part the result of his shepherding abilities that caused him to feel as though his skin was too-tight in moments of outward calm. 

When living with his warren it was helpful--Dettlaff would know if members of his pack were ailing or in danger before they would--but when he was alone with Regis it typically meant little. As his blood had connected the two of them, Dettlaff would spend his days haunted by a great pressure behind his eyes, or a burning on the back of his neck that told him that a packmate was in danger. 

Of course, Regis was in no danger, rather he was going through the extraordinary pain of building himself from scratch. But whatever animal part of his brain that vampiric connection was built from did not know that, it was only soothed by watching Regis, checking in on him to be sure he was well. 

Once Regis regained consciousness they were able to convey emotions through their bond, those uncomfortable feelings diminished to the intensity of an itch. It was a curious thing that Dettlaff didn’t fully understand but had gotten used to ignoring as time passed. 

But this bad feeling was not one of those small itches.

Dettlaff’s hair stood on end, and his skin prickled in the most infuriating way. Dettlaff had already checked in with Regis through their bond a dozen times, pushing through feelings of  _ concern, worry,  _ and  _ doubt _ but Regis soothed him every time. He was safe, not in pain or alarmed, but Dettlaff couldn’t shake the feeling, and it seemed to be getting worse as the day went on. 

Dettlaff was about to give up on the fae carving he was working on, too distracted by the uncomfortable feeling when a jolt went through him. It struck him to his core and made him lose his grip on the carving. It clattered to the floor, the noise far-off and muffled by the surge in his ears. It was not unlike the sensation of fear one might get from a sudden surprise, and Dettlaff’s body flooded with adrenaline in response. 

This was ridiculous. Dettlaff was half-mad in frustration over his ability responding when there was no known danger. This had only happened a few times before with his warren when one of them was under threat. Drawing a steadying breath, Dettlaff closed his eyes and imagined a thread, one that thrummed with energy and was the source of this bad feeling. He followed it, winding it into a ball as he did to close the distance, expecting to see Regis, or nothing at all on the other end. 

That was not what he saw. 

In hazy grayscale, Dettlaff felt himself looking through the eyes of another at a bruxa, one that radiated power and fury in great measure. Had he been called by an injured lesser vampire? It was incredibly rare, though not out of the realm of possibility, he supposed. But the being whose eyes he was looking out of proved to be no vampire when it raised a sword in defense, a wolf’s head carved into the pommel. The bruxa lunged, and another sharp pang ripped him out of his vision. 

Geralt.

It could be no other. His sense of dread mounted, as did his confusion, but there was no time to ponder how the witcher had tapped into his shepherding abilities; in a puff of wine-dark smoke, Dettlaff willed his body to mist and flew from out the open window of his workroom, toward the sense of danger. 

\--

_ Melitele, is this it?  _

The ground was rising fast to meet Geralt as he hurtled toward it. By tucking his head in he wouldn’t see the full impact, but he didn’t need to.  _ Broken bones, potentially ruptured organs, weak prey.  _ It was all too easy to take stock of the potential damage before it happened, seeing gruesome injuries flash through his mind. There was no way this wasn’t going to be messy.

Gods, he wished he had taken the Black Blood. 

Instead of the crushing force of a bruxa against his back or the ground against his face, Geralt felt a solid mass wrap around him, pulling him sideways. There was a loud crash as something rained down over his back and a grunt that he couldn’t be certain he didn’t make himself. The mass underneath him stirred, clearing debris from Geralt’s back. 

“Dettlaff?” Geralt looked up, face to face with the vampire. Dettlaff’s hair was a mess, and he had a wild look in his pale blue eyes, pupils dilating in the dim light. They had tumbled down into the cellar it seemed. 

“Witcher.” He wheezed out from under Geralt, holding his gaze. His arms were still wrapped around Geralt, who was laid fully on top of his torso in a way that must be extremely uncomfortable. 

“What...What’re you doing here?” His brain was struggling to catch up to the idea that he wasn’t pummeled into the flagstone. 

With another groan, Dettlaff shifted, moving brick and rubble around them. “Later. If you are uninjured, I need to address the issue at hand.” Dettlaff’s face shifted into a bestial, bat-like shape. His nose pushed flat and broad, the fullness around his cheeks and eyes sinking away to reveal sharp cuts of bone. Most striking was the way his lips peeled back, exposing his fangs as they fully descended, as fearsome in size as they were in number. 

Even after seeing Regis in this form, Geralt couldn't help the thrill that went up his spine at the sight below him. It wasn't quite fear that he was feeling, just a vague sense of interest and unease, like the desire to see what lies past a shadowed doorway. After a moment of delay, Geralt rolled off of Dettlaff and almost collided with a bronze alchemical still, of all things. Dettlaff stood, shaking like a dog to get the debris off of him before ascending the steps with heavy purpose, Geralt close behind. 

The dark-haired bruxa that had been attacking Geralt was now eerily still, tension written over her skeletal form as her eyes were trained on the higher vampire, not even glancing in Geralt’s direction. That was just fine with him. Scanning the area, he saw the disfigured bruxa hunched in an old workshed, equally alert and frozen. Geralt wanted to pull out his journal, he knew of no records that detailed hierarchy among vampires, and he was fascinated to see the power that Dettlaff commanded without effort. Then, Dettlaff spoke:

“What in your right mind would make you attack one so claimed by our kind?” It was a simple question, the baritone of his voice controlled and steady. There was no hint of anger or malice, but rather concern. Geralt looked to Dettlaff but was too far behind him to see his face. The brunette vampire gave a snarling whine, like she was struggling to respond. 

“He attacked my kin, I had no choice.” 

With a small turn, Dettlaff glanced over his shoulder to Geralt, his blue eyes even more chilling within his vampiric appearance. 

“Is this true, Witcher?” Geralt suppressed a shudder, feeling a chill from his words alone. 

“No,” He spoke clearly despite the unease, “She was already injured, mentioned a poison. I was asking her questions.”

“ _ Liar! _ ” The bruxa snarled, making move to lunge at him. Dettlaff’s head whipped back around with unsettling speed and he did.. _.something _ that caused the bruxa to still. her eyes flashed silver before returning to black, her body relaxed, arms hanging loosely at her side with her claws retracted. Confused, Geralt glanced again at the injured bruxa, and saw her in a similar position, though Dettlaff had not even looked in her direction. 

“Please, tell me what happened. I have not seen such sustained injuries on a bruxa in my life.” Dettlaff peered again over his shoulder and nodded for Geralt to approach, which he did in a daze, pulling his field journal by muscle memory alone. 

The bruxa--Nessa, they learned, with the injured one being named Roisin--told the story in a little, far-off voice, as if hypnotized. Geralt wondered if that was what this was, a hypnosis so powerful it could quell two bruxae at once. 

It was a story unlike any Geralt had heard before; Nessa and Roisin were a part of an exceptionally large warren that traveled loosely together. Over the past five years, they had been enjoying the comfort provided by the Toussaint area, which was considered a paradise for vampires due to its rich connection to the Conjunction of Spheres and thus, their homeworld. 

Due to this connection, they fed less and rested more, sustained by the remnants of magical energy that pulsed through the earth. Nessa’s warren, of more than twenty bruxae, had claimed a cave system in the northwest that was inhabited previously by nekkers. It was as peaceful a life as they could live, a few integrating into human society to trade for goods or find new victims. That was, until a few months ago.

In the early hours of the morning, as much of the warren was resting, they were awoken by explosions, louder than any they had heard before. Humans dressed in simple iron armor and brandishing weapons began flooding the cavern, launching more explosives as they went. The group was entirely male, and repulsive-looking ones at that. Nessa recalled many were missing teeth and were covered in markings, which Geralt took to mean tattoos. Bandits, most likely, and well organized. 

The bruxae prepared to attack when the first of many horrors began. The air, filled with silver dust, began to boil their skin like water, leaving open sores that took minutes instead of seconds to heal. Those who breathed it in said it felt like shards of glass in their throat and lungs, leaving them unable to use their disabling screams. 

Humans using silver in their weapons was not foreign to the vampires, they had done it for centuries and, usually, it was an irritant and nothing more. This, this was different though. The bombs seemed to have a magical element to them that caused a burning agony. Still, the warren fought on. There were a few young ones in their group, like Roisin, who needed to be protected, as bruxae rarely had offspring. The human numbers seemed endless, as one was cut down another would rush to fill his place, slashing through bruxae with their silver-coated weapons. There wasn’t even time to feed on the fallen, which may have restored their energy and healing, because the cave was so overrun. The humans, in the midst of this, stopped using explosives, a relief as the vampires worked to cut them down, until the men at the back of the group filled their slingshots with something new--thin glass flasks that broke on impact and covered the bruxae with a viscous, dark liquid. 

It was worse than the silver, much worse. Nessa could remember the sounds of their flesh burning, bubbling, the smell of acrid chemicals filling the poisoned air. Because some of the bruxae had sustained damage from the bombs, their raw wounds were even more vulnerable to the poison. It ate away down to the muscle and left it exposed. It was a horror that even a monster would not wish on another, yet the humans did not bat an eye. Some were even covered by the liquid themselves, which burned their own skin, though not as severely. 

That poison, whatever it was, is what turned the tide of their battle for the worse. Several of the bruxae fell to the mob, something that even Geralt could not recall happening before. The warren, injured and reserves exhausted, fled by scaling the walls of the cavern and fleeing out the open top. Nessa and Roisin had been some of the last to escape, because Nessa had been pinned into a corner by several of the human men, who were attempting to restrain her and cut her head off. Roisin, her only child, rushed to her aid, leaping onto the back of the biggest attacker and shedding him with her claws. Some of the others attempted to pull her off of the man, but she was immovable, determined to save her mother. 

When a hand pulled her fiery hair, the young bruxa paid no mind, her teeth firmly lodged into the neck of her victim. A dagger in the back forced her to release, as she screamed in pain, only to have something hard and metal wedged behind her fangs. 

A bomb. 

Nessa had seen too late, unable to shake off her own attackers. She watched helplessly as the bomb detonated, rending the skin from bone in Roisin’s mouth and blowing apart the human she had been holding. Everyone around them was stunned by the blast, the white-hot light and earth-shaking sound enough to leave them frozen for a moment. All except Nessa. 

In that moment, she overcame her own pain and tore through the men restraining her, piercing their torsos without remorse. She had both been sure Roisin was dead and refused to believe it was possible as she leaped toward her daughter. There was very little left of the left side of her face, strings of muscle and sinewy flesh hanging until they were charred ends. Her beautiful, bone-white fangs were nothing more than crumbled pieces in the blood and wreckage. But her eyes fluttered, and she reached out for her mother. 

Nessa could not remember anything after that.

\--

Dettlaff was repulsed to his very core. He did not live under the belief that vampires of any species were wholly innocent; their way of life as predators meant that spilling blood was in their nature. But this? This was not hunting, or even something as primal as revenge, it was senseless destruction. Seeing Roisin, so incredibly young for their kind, no more than fifty, to be so thoroughly disfigured made his stomach roll and his heart clench. He knew Nessa’s grief, her fear, having cared for so many other vampires in his life. It was the pain only a parent could feel. 

In a faint, ringing sort of way, he could feel echoes of that pain from Geralt. The witcher stood ramrod straight, trying to take notes in his journal but they would be illegible from the trembling of his hands. This display of Geralt’s emotions made Dettlaff settle in a small way. How strange, he thought again, for a monster hunter to have such sympathy for those he was contracted to kill. Geralt must have felt Dettlaff’s eyes on him because he looked up, face even more pale than its usual cast. 

“I know what they used to attack the warren.” Geralt’s voice was rough, wavering like his hand. “I don’t know how, or  _ why,  _ but those bombs, those potions, those are witcher recipes.” 

Surprise shocked Dettlaff like ice water. “But they were humans.” 

The journal slammed shut in Geralt’s hand as he gave a deep sigh of frustration. “Yeah, they are. Which means. Shit. I don’t know what it means. Last time I ran into humans who got their hands on witcher recipes, they were trying to make super mutated creatures while instructing peasants to kill us. This doesn’t bode well.” 

Dettlaff could not pretend to know enough about witchers to understand the event Geralt was referring to, but he could see the stress and anger written all over his body. After a moment, he nodded, more to himself than Geralt.

“So we go to the cave.” 

It was an obvious conclusion, to go to the scene of the attack for answers. Yet for some reason Geralt stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. 

“We?” Geralt asked.

“Yes, we. I do not tolerate violence against my kind for the sake of it. And if this is something stolen from your schools, you must want it back.” 

“Well, yes.” Geralt muttered, “Don’t know how much of a condition I am in to fight, though. Plus, what about them?” He gestured to the two bruxae, still under Dettlaff’s thrall. “We can’t leave them here.” The witcher’s voice was sad, laced with concern.

Again, a pang of what Dettlaff was beginning to call fondness went through him. Geralt seemed to have a great capacity to care for others, human or no. The witcher turned to Nessa.

“If we were to guarantee the safety of your warren, would you swear to return home? There are many contracts out for your lives, and others will hunt you if you don’t leave human territory.” Geralt’s amber eyes were intently fixed on the bruxa, though Dettlaff knew that Nessa would not answer to anyone but him while in this passive state. He gave her a nudge with his mind to respond. 

“Perhaps. We need their blood, there are many of us wounded.” Geralt frowned at that, opening his satchel as he spoke. 

“With your permission, I would like to give something to your child. It heals me, I can’t say for sure it will work on her, but I want to-Gods damn it!" Geralt cut himself off with the curse, revealing the broken neck of a glass vial from the satchel. 

"A witcher potion?" Dettlaff asked, curious.

Throwing the glass to the ground, Geralt sighed, nodding. "Yeah, had one that I was going to offer her once she told me what happened. But it broke when you...Wait!" He lit up, surprisingly animated. Turning back to the cellar, then to Dettlaff. 

"The wall we crashed through, it was a lab. There might be enough stuff in there for me to make more Swallow, if you can have them wait a bit." He was jogging down the steps, kicking bricks to the side to get into the hidden room. Dettlaff watched him with a small smile on his face. The witcher's exuberance, his eagerness to help was refreshing, especially given what they had just heard. He trailed behind, calling from the entrance. 

"That won't be necessary, Geralt. I can heal her quickly so that we may be on our way." 

The witcher already had a box of dried calendine in his hands, ready to get to work.

"Yeah? And she'll be okay?" 

"Better than," Dettlaff smiled, giving a fanged grin. 

It was simple enough, to use a claw to slice along a vein on his wrist and bring it up to Roisin's damaged mouth. She could not latch on with lips or teeth, just catching the liquid into her mouth but it was enough. Her skin seemed to come alive--a pink flush to her undamaged cheek as the gnarled skin on her other side knit itself back together. As she mended, Roisin raised her hands to hold Dettlaff’s forearm, drinking from it more purposefully before sinking her fangs into the pale flesh. 

Dettlaff winced, in the way one might when a child they are holding tugs on their hair, but smiled and allowed her to continue. Geralt was astonished as life sprang back into the young bruxa, whose mother was brushing her auburn hair and slowly guiding her to unlatch from Dettlaff. It all seemed intimate, familial in a way that no one had been able to witness among vampires, and though his first instinct was to record it all Geralt decided against it, letting this moment stay private. 

Low, hushed words were exchanged between the vampires in the hissing tongue of their native language, too quiet even for Geralt to hear. Dettlaff placed a fist over his heart, giving a somber nod to Nessa and her child, who reciprocated with bowed heads. Hesitantly, the bruxae turned to Geralt, fear and animosity gone from their eyes as they nodded to him. He returned it, a wordless communication of  _ no hard feelings _ . The bruxae departed, to where Geralt did not know. 

“That was…” _Incredible, confusing, shocking,_ “beautiful.” Geralt’s voice was awestruck as he looked to Dettlaff. “What  _ was that?  _ What did you say to them?” 

The expression on Dettlaff’s face was difficult to read, which Geralt was finding to be the norm with him. Yet there was a small twinkle in his eye,

“Simple custom. Now, to the warren?” Dettlaff was walking away before Geralt could respond, and he broke into a jog after him, whistling for Roach as they went. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments have been a huge motivator for me to continue this amid everything else in life. If you have the time, please let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Be warned I am still actively writing this fic. Suggestions, constructive criticism, & general niceties feed the author!


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